


To Judge Another's Crimes

by Arcturis



Category: Supernatural
Genre: American Sign Language, Angel Castiel (Supernatural), Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Archangel Castiel (Supernatural), Brother Feels, Castiel is a Winchester (Supernatural), Dean Winchester is Protective of Castiel, Dean Winchester is Protective of Sam Winchester, Destiel if you squint - Freeform, Eileen Leahy/Sam Winchester Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enochian-Speaking Sam Winchester, Gen, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Lucifer Possessing Castiel (Supernatural), Lucifer's Cage, Minor Eileen Leahy/Sam Winchester, Possessed Castiel, Possession, Post-Episode: s11e14 The Vessel, Protective Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester Has Mental Health Issues, Sam Winchester Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Sam Winchester Remembers Lucifer's Cage, Sam Winchester Whump, Sam/eileen - Freeform, Trauma From Lucifer's Cage (Supernatural), Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-05
Updated: 2019-03-25
Packaged: 2019-10-05 00:39:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 47,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17314805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arcturis/pseuds/Arcturis
Summary: Sam and Dean Winchester both have trouble reconciling the fact that Castiel said yes to Lucifer. However, their reasons differ severely and it causes conflict as they try to save Cas. Meanwhile, Sam has to face the fact that Lucifer is back in the world.





	1. When It All Falls Down

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be a longish one-shot but my imagination kind of ran wild with it and I have no idea how long it'll end up actually being. Chapter title taken from the Audiomachine song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8uB-e9qzUjE

Blinding pain erupted in his knuckles as Dean punched the kitchen wall once, twice, three times. The pain was better than facing reality, facing the cold fact that Cas … Cas had …

He shoved away from the wall and opened the door to the liquor cabinet, blindly grasping at whichever bottle was closest. The fiery liquid burned down his throat. Whisky. Good.

God.

Oh god.

What a fucking mess.

He walked into main area, taking another long drink and propping himself up on the table with his busted fist. Anything to drown out the truth that he couldn’t face right now. He’d downed a quarter of the bottle before he felt the blessed beginnings of inebriation on the edges of his consciousness.

_Not enough._

Ignoring the warnings from the still-sober areas of his mind, Dean poured more of the burning liquor down his throat, chasing unconsciousness as fast as his impressive alcohol tolerance would allow him. He needed to forget, just for awhile. Lucifer, Cas, _The Bluefin,_ Delphine, everything and everyone just needed to _leave him alone._

More alcohol, more fire, less thought, less memory.

“Please.”

His speech was slurred and he had no idea what he was asking for or whom he was addressing, but he felt an urgency that he had to ask _something_ of _someone._ Anyone.

They were all so screwed.

 

_____________________________________________________________

 

The usual hungover groans and complaints were the first thing out of his cotton-dry mouth as Dean surged reluctantly to unconsciousness. His stomach roiled and he clutched at his abdomen before gaining control of his alcohol-induced nausea. His head felt like someone had run it over with a semi. Or hit it with a sledgehammer. Possibly both. Everything was swimming and he couldn’t decide if he was still drunk or if this was merely a hangover of apocalyptic proportions, and he didn’t use that word lightly.

Sammy.

He surged to his feet, the movement nearly knocking him back to the floor. How could he have forgotten about his brother? Guilt and shame was enough to fight past the consequences of last night’s binge and he rubbed his head, heading down the halls towards Sam’s room. Sam who, after blasting Lucifer to who knew where, had retched in fear and pain and bolted to his room when Dean had walked towards him to see if he was ok. He hadn’t come out since.

Sam’s door was closed. Dean rapped lightly, holding back a curse as his abused knuckles reminded him that he was a moron. Nothing but silence answered him and he ground his teeth a moment, conflicted about how to proceed, before he turned the handle and carefully entered Sam’s room.

“Sammy?”

His younger brother was sat against his headboard, face ghost-white and eyes shadowed with fear. He didn’t acknowledge Dean’s presence, even when Dean walked towards him slowly, leaving the door open.

“Sam, you with me?”

Still no answer. There was no indication that Sam even knew Dean was in the room. The elder Winchester looked him over critically and noticed his brother was digging a thumb into his palm-scar desperately. From the expression on his face, his usual failsafe wasn’t working. Dean touched him carefully on the shoulder, wincing as Sam threw himself off the bed and back against the far wall, trying to put as much distance between them as possible.

“Woah, easy there Sam. It’s just me.”

There was no recognition in Sam’s eyes and Dean’s heart clenched in fear. Not again. This couldn’t be happening again, not with everything going on.

“C’mon, man. It’s me, it’s Dean. Stone number one, remember?” A glint of recognition sparked and Dean grasped at it desperately. “Stone number one, Sammy. Build it back up, I know you can. You’re safe. It’s just you and me. Anything else you’re seeing, anyone else in the room? They’re not real. I’m real. You’re real. This bunker is real. Anything else you’re seeing is just a hallucination. It can’t hurt you.”

He kept talking and, eventually, Sam came back to himself and slid down the wall, holding his head in his hands. He still hadn’t said a word, but he allowed Dean to approach him slowly and kneel down beside him.

“Everything hurts,” Sam murmured after a long while. “Breathing, moving, thinking. I feel like I’ve literally been hit by a bus.”

Dean chewed the inside of his cheek, unsure about whether to press Sam. He knew this event must have been traumatic for his brother, but it was important to assess the damage, both physical and mental, and act accordingly. “What’s the damage, Sam?”

“I’ll mend,” he said dully. “There’s no physical injury.”

Dean frowned. “If there’s no injury, then why are you in so much pain?”

“I - “ Sam clamped his mouth shut, squeezing his eyes closed and guilt washed over Dean. He should have come to check on him sooner.

“Look, Sammy. I know this is hard for you, but I need to know what he did to you. There’s obviously physical damage if you’re in pain.”

“No, it’s not like that Dean.”

“Then what is it?”

Sam shuddered. He could physically feel the horror travel down his spine and he curled up tighter. Dean could see his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed convulsively, fighting against the memories of whatever had happened while Dean had been on _The Bluefin._

“Can I?” Dean asked quietly. Sam nodded slightly and Dean slowly grasped a shoulder before giving him a once-over. He noted the spots where Sam seemed most sore, felt the muscles that were most tense. He compiled a mental list of what Sam would need to help ease his physical discomfort and started formulating a plan for the current dilemma. Sam had been right; he couldn’t identify any physical injury besides general malaise.

He pulled his hands back, knowing that physical contact was making his younger brother skittish. Lungs expanded almost to the point of pain as Dean took a deep breath, trying to figure out what to do next. Maybe Sam mistook it for impatience, because he started talking.

“Do you remember how we found out I didn’t have a soul?”

The question surprised and confused Dean. He leaned back slightly, regarding Sam for a moment. “You mean when Cas shoved his hand inside your chest?”

Sam flinched sharply, but nodded tightly. “Lucifer played a game. The longer I … I went … Dean. Dean!”

Sam’s breathing sped up and he started shaking, curling himself tighter and covering his head with his arms. Dean jumped to his feet, bolting to his room and returning with an amber bottle of small, white pills. He shook one out and brought Sam’s chin up, depositing the pill into Sam’s trembling hand. “Take it,” he ordered, voice firm and leaving no room for disobedience. If they didn’t curb his panic attack now, Sam would disappear inside his mind for hours, left to the torment of his Cage memories.

Dean’s commanding tone cut through the mindlessness and Sam shoved the pill into his mouth, swallowing it dry. The elder Winchester spoke softly, using his voice as a lifeline for Sam to cling to while the medication worked its way into his system. After what felt like too long, Sam’s shaking subsided and he loosened his stance, leaning tiredly against the wall.

“What was that?”

“Ativan,” Dean replied, sitting back against the bed.

Sam frowned. “Where’d you get that?”

“Where do you think? I stole it from a hospital.”

Hazel eyes rolled. “Ok, so _why_ did you get it?”

Dean was quiet for a moment, shifting uncomfortably. “For myself. I was experimenting, when I had the Mark. Trying to see if anything would calm it down.”

Sam’s eyes widened in surprise. “I didn’t know that. Did it work?”

“At first, but it never lasted very long. Eventually I stopped, but I kept them. You never know when you want, or need, good drugs.”

He was only half joking, but Sam gave a short, quiet laugh anyways. “Guess it’s a good thing you did.”

“You feeling better?”

“Yeah, actually. Calmer. Kind of like I can analyze the situation with a bit more detachment.”

Dean nodded in relief. It had been years since Sam had lost control of his fear like that, but Dean couldn’t blame him. Sam’s worst fear, besides losing Dean, was that Lucifer would get loose and come after him and now his nightmares had become his reality. They sat in silence for a few moments before Sam cleared his throat and started back where he’d left off.

“Sometimes, in the Cage, Lucifer would play a game. If I could hold on without making any noise, he’d go easier on me next time.”

Dean felt himself go cold.

“I don’t know why I played. I knew he’d never let me off like that, but I tried anyways. Maybe it was just the last dregs of hope. Maybe it was a little bit of defiance. Probably both, I dunno. But I tried. Every damn time, I tried so hard. Except that if I went too long, he’d get impatient and he … he would … “

Sam rubbed a hand over his face, swallowing hard. Dean waited silently for him to continue. It took a moment for his brother to regain composure, but he continued with a shaky voice.

“He’d reach in and grab my soul.”

Dean thought he might vomit.

“It wasn’t just a touch like … like Cas did to check if it was there. He’d grab it and hold it. He’d _squeeze_ and that … that kind of agony, Dean. There’s just no description. I always lost. It was one of the worst … “ His voice failed him and he lapsed back into silence, staring past Dean with empty eyes.

“Sammy?”

Sam continued on and Dean didn’t know if he was ignoring him or if he just couldn’t hear him. “We found a way to bring you back, even with the warding on _The Bluefin._ A spell from one of the books in the library. The Men of Letters were never able to try it because it required the use of an archangel. Cas was so determined to try anyways, but I knew he wasn’t strong enough, so I told him to … to touch my soul, like he’d done with Bobby when we went after the phoenix. Except it wasn’t Cas, Dean. It wasn’t Cas and Lucifer didn’t need to charge up like Cas did, but his hand was in my chest anyways and he was crushing my soul and it was _so damn cold - “_

Dean grabbed Sam’s shoulders and shook him slightly as his tone took on a hysterical edge. Sam jumped, but the gesture was enough to bring him back to himself again. Dean understood now, understood why Sam was in so much pain, why his fear was overwhelming him. He stood up and reached down to pull his brother to his feet. “Alright, dude. You’re going to go take the hottest shower you can stand. I’ll make you some of your gross leaf juice. No coffee for you until that Ativan wears off. And don’t look at me like you’re impressed or something. I know a thing or two about meds.”

A slight smile twitched onto Sam’s face. “Probably because you learned the hard way.”

Dean felt some weight lift off his shoulders at even this small expression of anything besides fear. “I’ll be in the kitchen when you’re done. Don’t use up all the hot water.”

“Dean, the hot water doesn’t run out. You know that.”

“Yeah, whatever.” Dean waved back at him as he walked down the hall and Sam watched after him for a long moment before taking a deep breath. Despite the benzo’s effects, he could still feel terror on the edge of his mind, threatening to take over as yesterday’s events were brought back to the forefront of his memory. He dug his thumb into his palm scar, but the familiar sensation told him that this was, in fact, real.

_Alright then, Sam,_ he thought to himself firmly. _Stone number one it is. Now build._

He took another shaky breath and walked to his bathroom, stripping off the sweat-coated clothing. He regarded himself in the mirror, eyes trailing critically down his scar-ridden body and settling just below his sternum. The area still burned with a fierce, frostbitten cold, but there was no mark, no discoloration, nothing to suggest he’d ever been harmed. He forced himself to look away and turned on the shower, sighing in relief as the jet streams of hot water trailed over his skin. The liquid ribbons of heat battled the perpetual cold he felt and Sam relaxed. Sometimes it was nice to have something rather than your own will fight your battles.


	2. Wars of Faith

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title taken from Audiomachine's piece: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3GjNX7jcLK0

The kettle was ringing loudly by the time Sam shuffled into the kitchen. A frown crossed his face as he looked between the shrieking pot on the stove and Dean, who was nursing a glass of what looked like whiskey. Sam checked his phone; the glowing screen read out at 12:25. It wasn’t the earliest his brother had ever started on the alcohol, but the absent green eyes and pain etched so clearly in his features made Sam wary.

“Dean.” No answer, so he cleared his throat and tried more forcefully. “Dude!”

Dean jumped and set the glass down, his typical nonchalant mask slamming back into place. “Good shower?” he asked over his shoulder, pouring some of the boiling water into a waiting mug. He heard his brother’s reply, but it barely registered. He was too distracted by Sam’s hawkish stare on his back. He bit back a grimace of irritation, but didn’t call him out on it - the resultant conversation would take turns neither of them wanted. He went to set the mug of tea in front them, but as he pulled away, Sam grabbed his wrist and inspected his busted knuckles.

“Dude, what the hell?”

Dean batted his mothering away impatiently and went to pour himself a cup of coffee before sitting down across from Sam. “Must have happened on _The Bluefin_ ,” he lied. Sam looked like he wanted to press the issue, but he only stood up to grab an ice pack from the freezer and tossed it down next to Dean’s coffee. Dean nodded in thanks and time passed silently as they sipped on their drinks. Each man regarded the other when they thought they could get away with it. Their own private worries disregarded at the expense of their concern for each other.

Sam looked better. Still pale, still haunted, but his shivering had stopped and he seemed to relax more with every sip of tea sending the hot, fragrant liquid deep into his body where the shower hadn’t been able to warm him up. The Ativan had clearly done it’s job; the occasional press into his palm-scar had lost it’s frantic desperation and looked more like Sam’s typical absent motion and Dean thanked his father for instilling an obsessive need to hoard medications.

Dean looked worse. Sam wasn’t sure he believed his brother’s story. There was a cracked tile with some smeared red behind Dean and Sam knew Dean’s typical winces and slowed movements following a night of drinking away his sanity. His green eyes, always shadowed with burden, had taken on even more since yesterday. Since he’d known that Cas had …

_No. Push that away, force it down, make sure it never sees the light of day._

“You’re getting too old to drink your way through the liquor cupboard.” Sam’s voice was deliberately light, pretending for both their sakes that he wasn’t working his way through the beginnings of another panic attack. Dean glared at him and poured the remains of his whiskey into his coffee. Typical. Sam laughed slightly. “Really? I’m surprised your liver hasn’t quit on you yet.”

“Best hangover cure is more alcohol,” Dean grumbled, finishing off his drink. Sam raised an eyebrow.

“You told me the best cure for a hangover was a greasy burger.”

“That too.” Dean stood up and poured himself another round of coffee. “You want some more tea?”

Anything to erase the bitter cold entwined in his soul. “Yeah, thanks.”

Dean grabbed blindly at Sam’s tea collection, only looking to make sure he was grabbing an herbal blend and not one with caffeine. He poured the still-hot water and sat back down with Sam, rubbing his face for a long while. What a fucking mess.

“Dean?” He looked up, meeting Sam’s worried gaze. Dean almost smiled. He’d been staring back at that identical expression since Sam could talk. He’d always known when his big brother was hurting and had always wanted to fix it. _I want to make the bad go away, Dee._ Sam’s little kid voice rose to his mind. _I want to make the bad things go away for you._

“We gotta talk about this, Sammy,” he said softly, feeling guilt well up at the way Sam tensed, wariness and fear replacing the previous worry. The younger man stayed silent, but his body language betrayed his unspoken response.

_No._

“Look, man … “ Dean flailed, trying to find something to say. But what was there to say? _Hey little brother, I know that Amara is a huge issue right now and is tearing the world apart. I know that I’m virtually useless with that, but now we’ve got this whole thing with Cas, who’s possessed by your worst nightmare who’s probably out for blood after he ganks God’s sister, if he even can._

Instead he just groaned and rubbed his face again. Sam stayed stone silent. He tried again after a few tense moments. “Okay, so we’re back to square one with the friggin’ Hands of God. We’ll keep looking into those, it’s still our best chance. But Sam - “

“Don’t.” The word was forced, harsh. Dean watched him carefully. “Please, Dean. _Please._ I can’t, I just …” He trailed off, pushed his palms into his eyes with a soft moan of conflict.

“He’s got Cas, Sam.” Dean’s tone was worried and that sparked something violent in the younger Winchester.

“That’s Cas’ problem,” Sam spat. Dean’s eyes widened in shock.

“What the hell, Sam?” he demanded, anger warring with confusion.

“Lucifer’s an _angel_.” Sam’s voice was taut as he forced the words out. “He needed _consent_.”

It took a moment for Dean to realize what Sam was saying and then memories of their last period in Hell showed him Lucifer towering over Cas in the corner of the before the bright flash of light that they had thought banished the archangel back to the Cage. Dean groaned and leaned back in his chair, his migraine taking on a new layer.

“Aw, Cas you stupid son of a bitch.”

“He said he wanted to be ‘of service to the fight’.“ Dean frowned at the hollow mockery as Sam relayed his short conversation with Cas. “Evidently he thinks only Lucifer has a shot at this. The thing is, he _always_ wants to be ‘of service to the fight’, and look at how well that always turns out.” Dean’s frown deepened at the raw anger dripping from Sam, an emotion so rare in his typically gentle brother. “I tried to convince him to eject him, to force him out, but he said no. He said we _needed_ him. So let’s focus on Amara, Dean. Cas chose his side.”

A low whistle caused Sam to look up from his tea, but Dean shook his head. “Shut up, Sam. Let me think.” The younger Winchester looked at him, about to protest, but Dean looked at him pointedly and Sam shut his mouth, glowering.

This situation was entirely too complicated and he wasn’t sure what to do about it. Cas had to be saved. There was absolutely no question about it. He didn’t care what it took, that stupid seraph was family, no matter how badly he screwed things up when he tried to help.

On the other hand, Sam’s anger was all too understandable. When someone you consider a brother intentionally let’s out someone like Lucifer, well … the only greater betrayal he could think of was if Dean, himself, had said yes to Lucifer and Sam was so rarely angry that Dean didn’t have much practice handling that emotion in his brother. Sam’s fear, relief and concern often showed themselves in the forms of anger, but _true_ wrath was a virtually foreign concept to Sam. It just wasn’t in his nature.

“Alright, Sammy. I need you to listen to me. I know you’re not going to like it, but you’ve got to hear me out.” Sam said nothing, so Dean continued. “Look, man. I know Cas … I know he’s hurt you. And not just this time around, okay? I know that. And I can’t imagine how you must be feeling right now, but you know there’s not a cruel bone in his body. Whatever was going through his mind, you know his intentions were good.”

“Last time I checked, that’s how you paved the road to Hell,” Sam muttered darkly.

“What, you think we’re above him?” Dean demanded. “If I hadn’t stopped you from closing the gates of Hell, this wouldn’t be an issue. If you hadn’t broken that final Seal, Lucifer never would have gotten out at all.” Sam shifted uncomfortably, looking away. “None of us are blameless, Sam. Not a single one of us. Now, I’m not about to talk down what he did or the betrayal you must feel, but c’mon dude. Cas is family. He’s one of us and we don’t give up on family. Ever. I didn’t give up on you when you were hopped up on demon blood. You didn’t give up on me when I was a demon. We can’t give up on Cas now.”

Dean watched Sam closely and could see the conflicted emotions in his angular face. He couldn’t blame Sam, not really. Dean had faced similar struggles after finding out Sam had all but abandoned him and Cas to Purgatory. “I’m not saying you need to get over this or you need to pretend you’re not pissed. We’ll focus on Amara and the Hands of God for now and we’ll cross this issue again when we find Cas’ trail, okay? Just promise me you won’t give up on Cas. Promise me you’ll think about this.”

It took a few moments of Sam grinding his teeth before he nodded curtly and stood up, wincing as his aching body protested. “I need some air,” he muttered.

Dean sighed and watched Sam’s back as he walked out of the kitchen. Great. Just great. _Things are going so well,_ he thought. It was just their Winchester luck.

 

_____________________________________________________________

 

Soft, autumn breezes caressed Sam’s skin, trying to quiet the fire that fueled his feelings of rage and betrayal. He shifted from foot to foot, leaning against the side of the bunker and trying to make sense of it all. These emotions were so foreign to him. It was so easy for him to forgive others, to be able to empathize with the thoughts behind their actions, even if they were contrary to his own.

Did he want to hate Cas? No, of course not. Like Dean had said, the angel was family and true family was so rare in this screwed up life of theirs, but Sam didn’t know if there was a way to come back from this one. He’d wanted to go for a run, but the knowledge that Lucifer was _out there_ now, that he could be behind any tree or building, waiting and ready for Sam, paralyzed him with fear and he _hated_ Castiel for that, hated that he was back to living in terror and jumping at shadows. Memories of the Cage rose unbidden to his mind and he closed his eyes, running his thumb along his palm-scar and he hated Cas for that too.

Sam had long ago forgiven Castiel for breaking down Death’s mental wall, for forcing almost two centuries-worth of literally torturous memories back into his mind. He’d seen the state Cas had been left in when he’d lifted Sam’s insanity and taken it upon himself and Sam had forgiven him, but now he was just angry again. Angry and hurt and betrayed and he just couldn’t stop himself.

A prayer began forming, unspoken, but Sam crushed it immediately. He’d vowed that he’d never pray again, not after learning who had truly answered his prayers. The thought of Lucifer in his mind like that again, forcing him to watch visions of the Cage, was too much. Never again. God had rarely lended a hand in the past and now his sister and his Devil son were running loose and causing chaos and destruction and where was God? Nowhere. Or if he was, then he just didn’t care and that hurt Sam too. Sam, who had prayed every night up until a few years ago, who had believed _so hard_ until the constant abandonment in the face of their pain had become too much. So no, he wouldn’t pray. Not today, not tomorrow. Never again. He and Dean would sort this mess out themselves, just as they always had. They only had each other to lean on, after all.


	3. Requiem of the Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Graphic depictions of violence. This chapter is rated M.
> 
> Title taken from the Audiomachine title: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pS1DFy7UmsM

_Sam gasped raggedly, throat torn and bloody from screaming. He could see nothing but the floorfrom where he was tied on his stomach against the rack and, somehow, that made this so much worse. It was always easier to watch Lucifer’s ministrations to prepare himself for what was about to happen, but the inability to anticipate what came next let his imagination run wild and that was torture on its own._

_“Stop. Stop! Please!” The pleading words were Enochian. English and any other worldly language had long since abandoned Sam’s tongue in favor of the angelic language used by two of the three Cage residents. Lucifer had taught Sam in lessons of blood and agony that only Enochian would be tolerated and Sam had always been a swift learner._

_“But Sam, I’m almost done!”_

_Something was wrong with Lucifer’s voice. It was the same tone, the same audial mannerisms, but it sounded off. Different._

_The confusion was torn from Sam’s mind in favor of agony as the Devil cracked open his last vertebra and he heard Lucifer’s satisfied approval through the hazy sound of his screams._

_“See? That was the hard part. Now I get to have my fun. Human bodies are so strange, aren’t they? So many odd bits and pieces. For example, look at all the nerve endings that were hidden away inside your spine. They almost look like hair! Think we can braid them? If my hair was longer, like your lovely locks, we could have a braiding party, bunk buddy!”_

_Sam’s mouth opened in a silent howl of torment. The inherent_ wrongness _of Lucifer’s frost-tipped fingers running along the physical nerves inside his spinal column was something so unbearable, so foreign and taboo. Suddenly the touch was gone and Sam sagged limply against the rack, tears dripping onto the floor as his breath heaved in sobs. He could see Lucifer walking around to his front, fingers dripping with blood and spinal fluid. Sam tried to look up, but he couldn’t see above the archangel’s waist in his current position. Lucifer seemed to have similar thoughts, however, as he angled the rack up until Sam’s face met his. It wasn’t possible to feel colder than he was, but Sam felt himself go past that. What little blood remained inside his body drained from his face as he met Lucifer’s icy blue eyes._

_But it wasn’t Lucifer._

_It was_ Cas.

_“Cas?” His voice was ragged, barely audible._

_“Try again, Sammy.” The expression on his friend’s face was coldly cheery, more Lucifer than it was possible for Castiel to be._

_“Lucifer.”_

_“In the flesh.” A sick grin alighted on Cas-Lucifer’s face and Sam drowned in confusion and horror._

_“But I don’t … I don’t understand. How can you … ? How could he … ?”_

_“Well your friend Cas made a little deal with me. I’m an_ angel, _Sam. I needed_ consent.”

_“No. He wouldn’t. He’d never - “_

_“Au contraire, Sammy boy. He very obviously did or I wouldn’t be sporting this less attractive meat suit, now would I?”_

_This wasn’t making sense. The pain wasn’t helping him think clearly either, but Cas couldn’t have. He’d never betray Sam like this._

_But the proof was laid out in front of him as Lucifer, wearing Cas’ body, picked up a scalpel and smirked over at Sam. “Now let’s see how thin we can slice these nerves. More slivers of nerve means more for me to plait.”_

_He walked back around to where Sam’s eyes couldn’t follow and suddenly every nerve ending in his body was alight in agony, abused lungs screaming anew until he thought they might burst._

 

_____________________________________________________________

 

“Sam! C’mon, Sammy, snap out of it! Wake up!”

Dean knew better than to touch Sam during a nightmare. He’d learned the hard way how violent his brother became in the time it took for conscious reality to override his dream state. He chewed the inside of his cheek anxiously, reconsidering the cost of a black eye and a few bruised ribs. Sam wasn’t waking up and, by the unholy screams he was uttering and his Enochian pleading, his nightmare was getting worse.

He turned around in circles, looking desperately around the room and finally strode into the bathroom, filled up the empty trash can with water and dumped it firmly over Sam’s sleeping form. His brother sat bolt upright with a ragged gasp, wide eyes filled with terror and confusion.

“Sam! Focus, man! It was just a nightmare. You’re awake now, it wasn’t real! It wasn’t real, Sammy. C’mon, come back to me.”

Sam’s chest was heaving as he fought against the dregs of his dream, focusing on his brother’s voice and using it as a lifeline as he thumbed his scar, digging into his hand.

“That’s it, Sammy, there you go. Focus on me. Stone number one, you’ve got this.”

Eventually, the room swam into focus and he saw Dean standing a few feet away, green eyes flooded with anxious concern. His clothes and bedding were soaked through with water and that fact distracted him long enough for the last remnants of reality to sink in. He was shuddering and he felt like he couldn’t get enough oxygen, no matter how much he gasped. Dean must have seen everything click into place because he was walking closer, hands held up to keep from startling Sam. He knelt next to his terrified brother, hands ghosting over his form. He was careful not to touch Sam until he gave his consent, but he was worried.

“How bad?”

“Ten.” Sam’s voice was hoarse and tattered and Dean felt his heart sink. They’d started a one-to-ten rating system a few years ago after Dean had pushed a little too hard for details after waking Sam up one night. The lower the number, the more willing Sam was to talk about what he’d relived. The higher the number, the more traumatizing his nightmare had been.

“Can I?” he asked carefully and, although Sam stared at him as though he might disappear, he didn’t respond. There was no obvious answer to Dean’s question, so he started small. “Let me see your hand, Sam,” he requested quietly. He knew Sam was struggling to stay with him, so he took Sam’s hand gently rather than waiting minutes on end for Sam to process what he was saying. A hard shudder ran through his brother’s form at the physical contact, but he stayed where he was and Dean examined his palm critically. He’d rubbed the area raw and there were a few cuts where his nail had broken the skin in his desperation.

“These need to be cleaned Sam. The last thing you need right now is infection. C’mon, get up. Movement will help. Bathroom or kitchen?”

Sam struggled, trying to think past the fragments of fear and memory to focus on the choice Dean was giving him _right now_. It always helped when Dean gave him choices. It forced him to focus on something other than being back in the Cage. “K-kitchen,” he stuttered.

Dean nodded. “Kitchen, it is. You look like you could do with a drink, anyways.” He grasped Sam’s hand again, pulling him up. Sam shuddered again at the touch, though the reaction was less violent than it had been previously. He clapped his brother on the back, jumping as Sam cried out and leapt away, pushing himself against the wall with arms folded tight against his chest. Dean took a deep breath and silently berated himself. “Sorry, Sammy. I didn’t - ”

Sam shook his head, eyes shut tight as he struggled for clarity. “Not your fault,” he muttered quietly. “You couldn’t know.”

Dean held out a hand to him, movements slow, but Sam shook his head and Dean dropped his arm. “Alright, c’mon. Let’s get you that drink.” He walked out, Sam following a few steps behind him. He heard Sam sit down at the table as Dean poured them both a glass of scotch before gathering some medical supplies.

He heard glass clink down on the table just a few seconds later. “More,” Sam said hoarsely. Dean gave him a look, but poured his brother another round. That was gone as swiftly as the first.

“Slow down there, man. It’s the middle of the night.” Sam shook his head and pushed the empty glass Dean’s way. The older Winchester sighed and placed his supplies on the table before pouring more scotch. “Last one for now. I haven’t even tasted mine.” Sam’s eyes roamed the kitchen skittishly, but he slowed to sips rather than gulps.

Dean sat down and took a sip of his own. “Hand,” he ordered. Sam obliged hesitantly and Dean inspected the cuts again before dabbing at them with an alcohol-soaked rag. He knew it must have stung, but Sam didn’t so much as shift in discomfort. His eyes merely scanned the kitchen as he sipped at his drink. “I’ll wrap your hand, but you should be able to take it off in the morning. They’re not deep, they just need to be kept clean.”

Sam nodded tightly, draining the rest of his liquor. Dean strained at the silence, taking small sips of the scotch to do something other than press Sam. He’d never been a patient man, even when it came to his kid brother and his inability to fix Sam’s issues tore at his composure.

“I found some books in the library that might help.” Sam’s voice was rough from screaming, but he continued on. “There’s some lists of holy relics that could be Hands of God. I’ll start looking into them.”

“No, Sam. You need to rest.”

_“No,_ ” came the fervent response. “No. Dean, just … not tonight. I can’t. I can’t go through that again. I need to work.”

Dean struggled to find a logical reason why Sam should sleep. He knew it wouldn’t just be tonight and Sam could force himself awake for days on end, but he also knew a thing or two about Hell nightmares. Sometimes reliving that kind of past felt like you’d never left at all.

Sam stood up and poured himself more scotch and Dean watched him carefully. Sam rarely drank away his problems, but here he was downing his fourth round in twenty minutes. “Sam, you drink much more and you’ll pass out no matter how hard your resolve is.”

Sam paused in the act, clearly conflicted, but he set the bottle down and stood silently with his head bowed and his hands clutching the countertop. Dean watched the strained muscles in his back and could see a faint tremor in his motionless figure.

“If Lucifer was bored, you knew you were in trouble.”

Dean frowned, listening more closely to the barely-audible words.

“He was always creative when he was bored. It was easier if you could piss him off because then he’d just whale on you, you know? He’d get messy and just take out his anger and frustrations on you. There’d be no ‘art’ or finesse. He’d just beat you senseless, but if he was bored … if he was bored, he thought up these just … unimaginable torments. Things you could never dream up.”

The familiar horror-fueled nausea roiled in Dean’s stomach as he listened to Sam’s account of his time in the Cage.

“And I remember this one, Dean. I remember all of them. Out of everything he did to me, this was one of the most unbearable sessions. Except it wasn’t Lucifer. Dean, it wasn’t _him._ I mean, it _was,_ but it was Cas’ body. It was Cas’ eyes laughing at me and his voice making those sick comments and his _hands_ causing all that … all that _pain_ and _mutilation_ and I just can’t. I can’t see that again. Don’t make me see that again.”

Sam didn’t know who he was talking to anymore, whether it was Dean or a higher power or just the air around him, but scenes were replaying in his mind and he had to make them _stop_ so he grabbed the bottle of scotch and forgot his glass, drinking the amber liquid straight from its source. He heard Dean get up and walk over before the bottle was being gently pried from his grasp. “Dean, don’t. Knock it off.”

But the bottle was replaced by another and Sam frowned, looking at the unmarked container. “If you want to forget,” Dean said softly. “Use Bobby’s moonshine. It’s harsher and it’s got more alcohol content than anything we could buy.”

“Where did you get this?”

Dean shrugged. “I found a store of his at Rufus’ cabin. I save it for special occasions. Use the glass though, don’t go chugging that crap. He called it Rot Gut for a reason.”

A small, almost invisible smile alighted on Sam’s face at the memory and he poured himself a glass before downing it with a slight cough at the burning trail it left in his throat. The taste, though harsh and crude, was somehow comforting and Sam wished that Bobby was with them in the bunker.

The moonshine was swift to knock Sam senseless and Dean led his drunken brother down the hall after another half hour. “My room tonight, little brother,” he muttered. “My bed’s more comfortable than yours.” He felt something warm drip onto his neck as he opened the door and led them inside and looked up to see silent tears running down Sam’s cheeks. “Aw Sammy,” he whispered brokenly, brushing the tears away. “C’mon, dude. Everything’s going to turn out fine, I promise.”

Sam only nodded, following his brother’s lead into the bed. He’d never have agreed to sleep alone, even drunk out the ass as he was, so Dean had to compromise. He knew Sam would wake up long before he did, mortified that he hadn’t been able to sleep alone and they’d never speak of it once Dean woke up. So he half-sat up in bed, propped up against the pillows and held his shuddering, crying kid brother against his chest, singing softly to him until Sam drifted into an alcohol-induced coma. Dean was awake far longer, silent tears of his own flowing into Sam’s hair as he held his little brother close.


	4. The Truth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was way too excited to stumble across the story of Samson and the Philistines and now this is firmly canon in my head. Additionally, I honestly have no idea where this is going or how and when it's going to end. This was supposed to be a one-shot and then it got another chapter and another and I don't know when it's going to be done lol.
> 
> Chapter title taken from Audiomachine's piece: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q2Ug0kEn2g8

Sam was long gone when Dean, groggy from sleep, sat up in bed and looked around. The clock next to his bed read 11:30 and he groaned. He didn’t know how Sam consistently got up before the sun, but it had to be some unholy curse. No one could actually _want_ that. He sat up for a few minutes before groaning again and forcing himself to his feet, wrapping up in his “dead guy robe”. He snorted in derision at Sam’s mocking title. The robe was soft as hell and his little brother didn’t know what he was missing out on.

A large yawn twisted his features as he trudged towards the kitchen. There was coffee already brewed and waiting and he poured himself a large mug, as well as a second for Sam. Who knew how long the guy had been up and, knowing him, he’d probably had his nose buried in books this whole time.

He shuffled into the library and looked around. Sure enough, Sam was looking between an old scroll and something on his laptop. “Morning, sunshine,” he called without looking up.

“I brought you coffee,” Dean muttered tiredly. He caught Sam’s amused look as he gestured to the empty mug next to his computer. “Suit yourself,” Dean returned grumpily and collapsed in a chair opposite his brother, taking a long gulp of the caffeine-infused drink. He sighed happily and settled further down in his seat. “You been at this all morning?”

Sam shrugged. “What else was I going to do?” he asked, looking back at his laptop.

“Find anything?”

“Yeah, no thanks to you. Seriously, dude. The times you wake up are ridiculous. Dad would have your hide.”

“Yeah, well dad’s not here and I’m an adult. I can sleep as much as I want,” Dean grumbled.

Hazel eyes rolled at his big brother’s petulance. “Uh-huh. Sure, Dean.”

“Says the one who wakes up before the friggin’ _sun_ is even awake. That’s not natural, man.”

Sam huffed a small laugh. “You’re an idiot.”

Dean rolled his eyes in return and took another sip of coffee. “C’mon, tell me what you have.”

Sam shook his head but obliged. “I’ve been compiling a list of holy Christian relics and then researching them online to see if they have any significance to God. Most are probably long shots, but considering how active He used to be in the ages of the Old Testament, there has to be a few of them still around.”

“They’re not going to be easy to find, if they are.”

“There’s a few that might be. I have a some possibilities listed down.”

“Already?” Dean was impressed. Sam had always been good at research. It was what made him a formidable hunter as much as Dean’s physicality was his own prowess.

“Yeah. The only problem is how do we tell if they’re the real deal or not? I mean, it seems like these are one-hit wonders, so it’s not like we can touch them and see, you know?”

“Yeah, and Delphine said it could kill a human,” Dean added.

“Crowley?” Sam suggested hesitantly.

Dean made a face. “Yeah, he could probably tell if it was legit before he made off with it.”

Sam grimaced before going down the list. “Well there’s a collector in Arizona who claims he has a piece of the salt pillar that was Lot’s wife.” He ignored Dean’s scoff, continuing. “There’s the Shroud of Turin, but that’s probably a no-go. I doubt Crowley could get into the Vatican.”

“They’ve probably got it warded against everything, including hunters,” Dean said, dismissing it entirely. “The salt is probably just salt. What else you got?”

“Nehushtan,” Sam offered.

“Bless you.”

Sam laughed. “No Dean, it’s a relic. In the Old Testament, God smote the Israelites for speaking against him. He sent what the Bible described as ‘fiery serpents’ to attack them. When they went to Moses and confessed their sins, God commanded Moses to put one of the serpents on a staff and anyone who looked and had faith would be cured.”

Dean looked thoughtful, taking another gulp of coffee. “Do we know where it is?”

“Well, no one’s ever solidly identified it. There’s a few claims, so we’d have to find a way of narrowing it down.”

“It’s worth a shot, though. Good work Sammy. Anything else?”

“A piece of the Ark of the Cov-“

“No, no. That was what Delphine had. I doubt we’d be able to find another piece so easily.”

Sam leaned back in his chair, rubbing his jaw as he thought. “Well if we can find out where Delphine found hers, maybe we could track down more pieces. I mean, that was just a chunk of wood. Hardly a significant part of the Ark.”

“Significant enough. You should have seen that thing go off, dude.”

“I almost wish I had,” Sam admitted. “I can’t even imagine seeing a burst of God’s power. That must have been incredible.” Dean shifted awkwardly in his chair, sadness coloring his features as he remember how his time on _The Bluefin_ had ended. Sam bit his tongue and hurried on. “There’s one more I could find as a definite possibility, but you’re probably not going to like it.”

“I’m listening.”

“Well in the Old Testament, Samson was given a weapon from God with which he single-handedly slaughtered an entire army of Philistines.”

Dean looked confused. “And?”

It was Sam’s turn to shift uncomfortably. “Well … the weapon was a jawbone. Of a donkey.”

“Are you telling me the friggin’ First Blade is a Hand of God?” Dean’s face was taut as he froze.

“No! Well … maybe. I’m not entirely sure. It’s possible that these are two totally separate weapons.”

But Dean was already shaking his head. “The jaw of a donkey used as a blade to kill hundreds by a single man? That sounds all too familiar, Sam.”

He had to admit Dean was right and he’d known that when stumbling upon Samson’s story in the Book of Judges, but he tried to reassure Dean regardless. “Look, even if it _is_ the First Blade and this isn’t some other weapon, you don’t have the Mark anymore. You wouldn’t have to touch it and, even if you did, it wouldn’t have any effect on you.”

“I don’t like it, Sam. I’ll think about it, but we try all the other possibilities first. Including that lump of salt.”

Sam sighed, but nodded, writing something down on his notepad. “Fair enough, Dean. I’m sorry. I knew you wouldn’t like it, but I felt it was worth mentioning anyways.”

“Not your fault, Sam. You were right, but I don’t have to be happy about it.”

Sam knew he was right, but he felt guilty anyways. He knew that Dean’s guilt and vulnerability in relation to his past with the Mark was similar to Sam’s own about his addiction to demon blood. Those types of conversations were always best left alone and he felt bad about bringing it up, regardless of necessity.

Dean interrupted his self reproach as he stood up and grabbed his own laptop, powering the device on as he finished the last of his coffee. “I’ll look into the chunk of salt. You take the … staff with the sneeze name or whatever.”

“Nehushtan,” Sam said, amused. He eyed the extra mug of coffee. Dean caught the glance and scooted it closer to himself.

“Nope. You had your chance dude. I offered and you turned it down. It’s mine now.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “You’re such a child sometimes,” he muttered, heading for the kitchen. Dean just grinned and opened his internet browser, deciding to research the topic of Lot’s wife before he tried to figure out how valid the collector’s claim was.

Sam headed to the kitchen and poured the remainder of the morning’s coffee into his mug. He paused, listening intently for a warning that Dean would walk in before grabbing a bottle of whiskey and pouring a double to fill up the remaining space. He remembered very little of the previous night, but waking up in Dean’s bed, covered in sweat, had been enough to tell him he’d woken his brother up again. The pounding in his head had told them they’d been up for quite some time. Despite the blanks, he could still vividly remember the nightmare that had prompted the late-night drinking binge and he was having a hard time keeping the images from flashing to the forefront of his mind. It was making research difficult and it had become a huge strain to pretend his was alright in front of Dean.

Dean, who was no longer the person who knew him best in the world.

The thought brought a punch of nausea with it and Sam gripped the counter hard, but he knew it was true. Nearly two centuries stuck in Lucifer’s Cage with the Devil himself ripping out secrets and personal knowledge meant that the person who knew Sam best in the entire universe was the one who had broken him in the first place. Sam shied away from that knowledge as he felt the beginnings of panic creep in at the edges. He pushed his thumb into his palm, welcoming the additional twinges of pain from last night’s episode.

_You’re in control,_ he told himself fiercely. _Your mind, your reality, your bunker. You’re here with Dean. Lucifer isn’t here. Stay in control, dammit._

Shouted words interrupted his struggle, but he couldn’t make out what Dean was saying. “Give me a minute,” he called back. “I can’t hear you.” He clutched the counter edges, taking deep breaths to calm himself, before taking a long drink from the whiskey bottle. He placed it back in the liquor cupboard quietly, grabbed his coffee and walked back to the library, slamming his mask of calm back into place before Dean could see his fear.

“What were you saying?”

“I said assuming that we can actually get to one of these things, we need a way to figure out if these things are actual Hands of God. And _not_ Crowley,” he added, catching Sam before he said anything.

“Dean, Crowley might be our only option. You said it yourself, that’s not something we can do on our own. And it’s not like we have Cas.”

Dean flinched slightly and refused to look at Sam as he caught traces of anger as he spoke the angel’s name. “What about Rowena?”

There was silence and he glanced up carefully, finding Sam running a hand through his hair thoughtfully. “Maybe. But she’s a snake too. We’d have to be careful. Not to mention, she has a habit of siding with the most powerful player.”

“You really think she’d side with Amara? That’s like taking the side of your own demise, it’s literal suicide.”

Sam shrugged. “She might think she can cut a deal with the Darkness. Some kind of clemency.”

Dean snorted. “Rowena might be the most powerful witch alive, but there’s nothing she has that Amara wants. Still, might be good to at least discuss it with her. I mean, she did let Lucifer out on the basis that he can stop Amara.” He didn’t miss Sam’s uncomfortable shift or the way he gulped hastily at his coffee. Which oddly smelled like …

“Sam? Is that … did you spike your coffee?”

More uncomfortable shifting. “What’s it to you?”

“Dude, it’s noon. You don’t day drink.”

“My head was killing me this morning. You’re the one that said more alcohol is the best cure for a hangover.”

Dean scoffed. “Yeah, and you knew that was bullshit. C’mon, Sam. What’s going on?”

“Nothing, I’m fine Dean.”

Dean frowned at him, but Sam avoided his gaze. He could feel the weight of his brother’s eyes and simply scrawled down notes on his pad of paper, trying to act like he was actually okay.

“Sam, this isn’t like you. I’m worried, man. Talk to me.”

Hazel met green as Sam finally looked up, exasperated. “You realize how hypocritical that is, right? If I had a dollar for every time you’ve put up a wall when I tried to get you to open up, we wouldn’t have to keep scamming credit card companies.”

He had a point, but Dean would never admit to something like that. “Just tell me what’s going on.”

“Do you really have to ask?” Sam asked, strain beginning to color his voice. “Dean, just let it be.”

“Sam,” Dean began, but stopped. He knew part of it, certainly. He hadn’t missed that Sam hadn’t left the bunker since he’d blasted Lucifer away. He hadn’t missed that Sam kept messing with his palm, favoring the wounded areas. He hadn’t missed the sudden alcohol dependance or the small flinches or the way Sam was burying himself in work and refusing to talk about specific subjects.

But there was something else going on as well, something Dean couldn’t put his finger on and that was what bothered him. Sam focused on physical work to get him through stress; field stripping his gun, going for a run. Dean had even caught him powering through an insane amount of pushups in his room once, when they’d been discussing letting Sam speak to Lucifer. But the amount of alcohol Sam was drinking was unlike him, as was his attempt to hide how much he was drinking.

He looked up to see Sam watching him as though simultaneously waiting for him to go on and hoping he didn’t. Dean just sighed. “Look, Sammy. I’m just worried about you, alright? You’re screaming in Enochian at night, you’re drinking during the day, you’re angry and scared and I just need to know that you’re going to be okay. I just need you to not hide things from me.”

Sam frowned. “Enochian?”

The question through Dean off track of his point. “Yeah?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Sometimes you speak Enochian in your sleep,” Dean responded with a shrug. “You used to do it all the time after we got your soul back. Normally it’s just during your nightmares these days.”

The blood drained from Sam’s face, leaving him pale and shaking. He stood up abruptly and stumbled towards the kitchen, leaving Dean to scramble after him. The hell was his problem?

He walked in to find Sam opening the liquor cupboard and Dean leapt forward, slamming the door shut before Sam could grab anything.

“Dean, move,” Sam said tersely, trying to shoulder his brother out of the way, but Dean stood firmly.

“This stops right now, Sam. What’s your problem?”

Sam leaned back against the counter, arms folded tightly and gaze locked to the floor. “I didn’t know you knew,” he said under his breath.

“Knew what?” Dean asked, hopelessly confused. “That you speak Enochian?” He saw Sam nod. “Why is that a problem?”

“I just … I don’t know, Dean. I’m not proud of it. I don’t want it. It wasn’t something I was particularly keen for you to know, considering _why_ and _how_ I know it.”

“Why not? It just is, Sammy. It didn’t surprise me the first time I heard you. You were locked in with two angels for over a year our time and they sure as hell weren’t going to be speaking English, you know?”

Sam flinched at replaying memories, punishments for daring to speak English. For being unable to understand what they had wanted in the first few months after Sam had locked them all in there. “I know Enochian better than I know English,” he admitted quietly. He could feel Dean’s surprise in the way his weight shifted. “It’s all I spoke, all I was _allowed_ to speak, for over a hundred and fifty years. I can speak the language of angels better than my first language, my _human_ language. Half of what I think is in Enochian, even, although I try to keep it in English.”

He didn’t expect a reply and Dean didn’t give one. What was there to say to that anyways? No matter how much they disliked it, it simply was. There was nothing to be done about it, as uncomfortable as the situation made them. Instead Dean shifted Sam gently towards the door and back to the library. “C’mon, Sammy. Let’s get back to work.”


	5. Redshift

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be a singular chapter with Chapter 6, but it got way too long and I had to cut it in half. I don't tend to use cliffhangers, I'm sorry!
> 
> Title taken from Audiomachine's piece: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AFuYyHiOmXs

Lot’s wife turned out to be a bust. Dean had found conflicting sources, but none of them had been able to date the chunk of salt past a few centuries. They’d found another supposed piece of the Ark of the Covenant but, similarly, dating technology had not been able to find traces back to the times of the Old Testament. The bronze staff Nehushtan seemed to be their best bet besides the First Blade and, true to his word, Dean had refused to discuss the option until they’d run their other leads dry. So, a few weeks later, Sam narrowed down one acclaimed bronze staff as their most likely option and they packed to go.

“We can summon Crowley in that warehouse and get him to bring Rowena on board.” Dean’s duffle bag was in hand as he leaned in the frame of Sam’s bedroom door, waiting for the other man to finish packing.

“You realize he’s going to demand to know what we want with her.”

“Yeah, well sucks for him,” Dean said mulishly. “I trust Rowena more than I trust Crowley.” Sam cocked an eyebrow at him and Dean shrugged. “She’s got a higher sense of self preservation that we can exploit.”

Sam rolled his eyes and zipped up his bag, shouldering it and grabbing his jacket. “You going to try calling first?”

“Yeah, but a nice Plan B summoning is never a bad idea.” He winked and smirked. “Always best to be prepared, Sammy.”

Sam laughed at him. “Right. You’re definitely the one to plan something out before kicking the door down.”

“Too damn right,” Dean said cheerily, turning to walk towards the garage.

Sam just rolled his eyes again and followed his brother. “How long’s the drive going to take once we have Rowena?”

“I don’t know, dude. Type it into your phone.”

“You’re so helpful,” Sam muttered, typing the city into his phone and waiting. “St. Paul is nine-ish hours.”

Dean sighed. “Once, just once, can’t our work take us to Hawaii or something.”

“That would mean flying,” Sam pointed out as they entered the garage.

Dean felt his mouth go dry at just the thought and patted Baby’s hood reassuringly. He ignored Sam’s smug look at Dean’s flying phobia. “We could always take a boat. No planes and we get to drive the coast. Can you imagine how she’d look against a Hawaiian sunset?”

Sam just laughed at his dreamy gaze and threw his duffel in the back next to the beer cooler. “Maybe someday. We can take a vacation if we make it to fifty.”

“Deal,” Dean said triumphantly, settling into the car and listening to her roar to life as he keyed the ignition. “Alright, let’s get this over with.”

The warehouse they had in mind was only thirty minutes from the Bunker and Sam enjoyed being out on the open road. He was still trying to get over his anxiety that Lucifer was lurking in the shadows, but the Impala was safe. There was no need to worry while he was riding with Dean. Dean, who threw his phone into the back with childish recalcitrance when Crowley’s voicemail message picked up.

“You’d think,” he muttered. “That the end of reality would be enough for him to pick up his _damn phone.”_

“So what now?”

“We summon the bastard,” Dean replied, not hiding the dark glee in his voice. Crowley kept blowing them off. It didn’t matter that he was a demon, or that he’d gotten uncomfortably close to Dean during his days as a black-eyed bastard. Couldn’t he show some responsibility and step up for once?

They got to the warehouse and argued for a few minutes about which demon trap to use before settling on the Second Pentacle of Saturn because Dean couldn’t get past the hilarity of the fact that this particular demon trap was supposed to repress the pride of its’ captor.

“It’s _Crowley,_ ” Sam had protested. “There’s no repressing that!” But the situation was funny and he’d relented despite what he considered to be the more practical use of Jupiter’s Third Pentacle. Commanding Crowley to obey seemed the better option but if Dean’s choice couldn’t suppress Crowley’s pride, his choice probably wouldn’t be compelling Crowley to their will either. So Dean ran perimeter as Sam shook out a can of spray paint and drew the devil’s trap, careful to include a pentagram in the circle for more security and hold.

“We good?” He called out as he watched Dean walk back towards them. His easy stance and slow steps already gave Sam his answer, but questions like this were routine, regardless.

“All clear. Let’s summon the Limey bastard.”

They gathered their ingredients and Sam read out the incantation before sliding his hunting knife along his palm, cautiously ignoring the perverse thrill he felt at the pain. He dripped the required amount of blood into the bowl and threw in a match, watching the contents explode in a brilliant ball of red flame.

Nothing.

Minutes stretched out in waiting silence, but the King of Hell never showed.

“That can’t be a good sign,” Sam said slowly. “That should have summoned him from wherever he was.”

Dean frowned, wondering if something had gone wrong, but as he checked over the circle and the bowl, he knew the spell work had been perfect, as Sam always ensured. “He can’t just … y’know. Ignore the summons, right?”

Sam took a step back, shaking his head. “No, he should be forced here from wherever he is. Unless he’s somewhere with more powerful warding, but I can’t think of why he’d be somewhere like that. And he didn’t answer his phone either.”

Dean’s frown deepened and he packed up their belongings. “Alright, let’s just head to St. Paul. We can try Crowley again once we’re there. Something doesn’t smell right.”

 

 _____________________________________________________________

 

 The collector in question would be attending a gala around seven that evening. Sam would be in charge of hacking the large mansion’s security system and putting the cameras on a loop. The hardest part would be slipping past the guards that patrolled the grounds, but Dean was in charge of watching them and noting their patrol patterns so that they could get in and get out without any evidence of them having been there.

Besides the absence of the staff, of course.

Dean shook his head over his beer. “Moses should have made it collapsable,” he said grumpily. “Crawling out of a window with a six-foot long staff is going to be less fun than just about anything we’ve done lately.”

“What’s life without challenge?” Sam asked, forking salad into his mouth.

“What’s got you so cheery?”

Sam shrugged. “I’ve just got a good feeling about this,” he lied. Truthfully, he was just happy he was out of the Bunker. Despite his recent aversion to the outdoors, he felt safe in the diner with Dean across from him and the Impala in the parking lot. They were out doing what they did best and it was easy to take his mind off of the recent events when they had a clear plan in place and something active to do.

“Uh-huh,” Dean said, obvious suspicion written across his face as he finished his beer. He’d scarfed his burger and fries in record time, as always, while Sam savored his food. They still had an hour before they had to head over to the mansion and he was in no hurry until then. The waitress came over to clear Dean’s dishes and Sam rolled his eyes at the familiar smirk that grew on his face. “Hey there,” he said in _that_ tone. Sam knew that tone. And he couldn’t blame his brother, not really. She was lovely, with short curly hair, a smooth coffee colored complexion and gorgeous green eyes. And sure, they had time, but they didn’t have _that_ much time.

“Hey,” she responded and Sam couldn’t tell if her expression was one of exasperation or amusement. “I hope the food was to your liking.”

“Mm-hmm,” he responded with a wink. “But the view was better.”

“Well, he is a handsome fellow,” she said, gesturing to Sam. “Congratulations, you’re a lucky man.”

Dean’s face melted into an expression of horror and Sam choked on his salad.

“What? No. No, it’s not like that! We’re just brothers,” Dean protested awkwardly. But Sam caught the wink the waitress sent his way and he almost choked a second time as he laughed.

“On a ranking list of cold shutdowns, that has to be my favorite,” he sniggered gleefully. Dean sent him a cold glare. If looks could kill, Sam wouldn’t have died but he’d have been heartily pummeled. That just made his shoulders shake with increased mirth.

“Forget it,” Dean muttered and threw some change on the table. “Let’s get out of here.”

“I’m not done!” Sam protested, hurrying to box up his food.

“Sucks for you. And no eating that crap in Baby!”

“Dean, I’m thirty-three, not thirteen!” But Dean didn’t respond and Sam scowled as he rushed after his sulking brother.

They opted not to find a motel but to drive straight to the mansion and use the extra time for more observation. Sam had eaten enough that he wasn’t hungry, but he still complained mulishly at Dean’s childish house-rules. No salad allowed, but his alcoholic brother could drink beer out of the cooler. It just figured.

Grievances and complaints were soon dropped as they threw on their masks of professionalism to get the job done. Dean had gone into the shrubbery to keep notes on the guards’ rounds while Sam stayed in the car, making last-minute notes on Nehushtan. He looked up as Dean slid into the driver’s seat and pointed towards the long driveway. A limousine was exiting the property, taking the collector to their fancy party and the brothers nodded in relief. Six-thirty; right on time.

“You got their round patterns?” Sam asked absently while he brought up the software to hack into the manor’s various security features.

“On the dot regular, every fifteen minutes. Morons should be keeping an irregular pattern, but no one learns from all those break-ins on the news.” He was grinning, getting into the ease of a job and Sam smiled. These things were always easier when their opponents didn’t know how to do their jobs properly.

“How long until the next rotation?”

“Ten minutes. Do your thing, Sammy. I’ll get the bag.”

They weren’t bringing a full duffel. There was no need with their plan which, if everything went accordingly, meant they wouldn’t come into contact with a single person. They kept their handguns and hunting knives on them, of course. Additionally Sam had the demon blade and Dean had his angel blade. Other than that, they would bring a small backpack full of equipment to break into the various barriers; doors, windows, cases and the like. It never hurt to be a little over-prepared.

Sam typed in the codes, effectively hacking into the security system and disabling the alarms quietly. His fingers flew elegantly across the keyboard, next placing the security cameras on a continuous loop to keep their images hidden. No one needed to know that they had ever been there. The only knowledge that anything had been amiss would be the staff’s disappearance.

He entered the command codes and looked over the program for a moment to make sure there were no flaws and that they would continue until he entered the kill code and then stepped out of the car. As he tucked his Taurus into the waistband of his jeans, he saw Dean consider breaking his phone as he hung up from a call with Crowley. Again, there had been no answer.

“Everything good?” Dean asked, closing the trunk and shouldering the backpack firmly. Sam nodded in assent and they crept silently into the shrubbery together, watching the guards. Within five minutes, they shifted positions and the brothers waited five minutes more for them to settle before sliding over the fence and soundlessly creeping to the closest mansion wall. They kept to the shadows, only stumbling into a guard once. Luck showed the lazy bastard was texting and they were able to correct themselves at the last minute, sliding into a doorframe without notice. Sam picked the lock easily and they stepped carefully inside, making sure the door made no noise when they closed it back up.

They took a moment to listen carefully, but there was no one else in the house. All staff, according to their intel, had left for the evening and wouldn’t be back until morning. The gala would go on late. They would have plenty of time to get the staff and get out, but every minute they wasted was more time to get caught so they hurried down the hall, looking through the rooms in search of Nehushtan. The first half of the house was a living area and they moved swiftly past that, into the half dedicated to displaying the collector’s set of rare items. Sam wished he’d had a chance to inspect everything. It was an impressive display, more like a museum than anything and the nerdy part of his brain wanted to examine everything with the rush that only came from knowledge.

 As though he could read his mind, Dean elbowed him with a roll of the eyes and beckoned him down a couple of rooms. His older brother had beaten him to it and, as he entered the room, the staff held by Moses stood before him.

Or that’s what they hoped it was. They had resolved to break it out and bring it to the Bunker regardless, because they had no way of telling whether this was the real deal or not. So, until they could get ahold of an angel or Crowley or Rowena or who-the-hell-ever, it would have to stay safe at their home. And if it turned out to be a fake, they supposed this would just be a good practice exercise and an excuse to get out Kansas for a couple of days.

Sam regarded the staff with interest, head tilted slightly as his eyes ran over the six feet of wood and alloy. The staff itself was a highly-polished red wood and formed into a cross at the top. Draped over the cross and wrapped around the staff was the detailed, intricate effigy of a large, bronze serpent. Sam admired the craftsmanship and beauty while Dean’s shoulders sagged with displeasure. This was going to be one awkward bitch to sneak out. It was as tall as he was and the crafted metal serpent would make it top-heavy, which meant he would have to balance it awkwardly and obviously as they tried to sneak it through the shadows. The cloth they’d brought to cover it would keep the light from catching the snake, but even so. He sighed.

Sam walked around and opened the pack on Dean’s shoulders, withdrawing some glass cutting supplies. It seemed the collector was thorough; there was no lock on the cases, which were all made of heavy glass sheets. They weren’t terribly thick, but there was no lock to pick and, besides, he’d always wanted to try cutting glass like they did in spy films. This was something he’d looked forward to for as long as Dean had wanted to try his grenade launcher and he was excited.

But as he placed the device on the glass, a voice sounded from behind them.

“Don’t bother. It’s a fake.”

The brothers jumped and whirled around, guns held to the ready. But the figure grew frost over their insides and their hearts felt like they’d stopped beating.

Standing behind them, the definition of nonchalant disappointment, was Lucifer.


	6. The Gallows

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heavy, heavy angst. TWs for violence and emetophobia.
> 
> Title from Audiomachine's piece: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KSFPbc2kGJE

“Lucifer.”

Sam breathed his name, barely audible and Lucifer took a deep breath, grinning wickedly. “Well hey there, bunk buddy! Fancy seeing you here!”

But it was Cas’ voice, Cas reminding him of the nickname’s history and he shuddered deeply, feeling nausea and horror roiling in his gut. His hands had developed a faint tremor, but Dean hadn’t wavered.

“If it’s fake, you’ve got no reason to be here,” he said evenly, cautiously. “We’re all on the same side, here. We’re all looking for a way to beat the Darkness. We’ll try another avenue and we can all go our separate ways.”

“Oh, I’ll deal with you in a moment, but right now I’m just … so _glad_ to see my old bunkmate here!”

“You touch him, and I’ll rip you apart.” Dean’s voice was still cautious, but his words were sharp. A promise, rather than a warning.

“Oh that’s so cute, Dean. Really, that’s adorable. But let’s be honest here, shall we? Even if you could harm a single hair on my head which, by the way, you can’t, but for theoretical purposes, let’s say you _could._ You wouldn’t. You won’t harm a single hair on this delectable meat-suit, not while Cas is still here.”

Dean swallowed hard. Lucifer was right, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t try bluffing. “Cas would understand. From what I hear, he kept you from killing Sam off.”

“That’s _true,_ but you see I’ve set Cas up in a lovely little corner of his mind. He’s watching bad soaps and eating peanut butter sandwiches.”

But Dean was shaking his head. “No, Cas knows you. He knows what you’re like. He wouldn’t take his attention off of you.”

“Well I may have lied to him,” Lucifer admitted. “Made promises I don’t intend to keep, and all that. No, don’t look at me like that. I mean, I _am_ the Father of Lies, after all. I _invented_ fibbing. Besides, Cas is real happy to have some wings back. Our deal isn’t without perks for him.” He shrugged his shoulders back slowly, revealing the silhouette of fully-formed wings. Red light burned out of Cas’ normal sky-blue and he heard Sam try, and fail, to hold back a small noise fear.

Lucifer’s eyes snapped back to Sam, who took an involuntary step back. “Please. Just … please. Dean’s right. We’re all on the same side for now. You said it’s a fake, we’ll leave. We’ll find another lead and I swear we won’t come after you.” Dean swallowed back a protest. He sure as hell wasn’t agreeing to that, but he wasn’t about to air that out in their situation.

The Devil was slowly advancing on Sam and Dean shouted out a warning, but a flick of Cas’ wrist locked him against a wall. “Sammy! You stay away from him, you son of a bitch!”

But the archangel just looked over and gave Dean a lazy smile, biting his bottom lip. “I wonder,” he mused. “If you’d still keep little Sammy here under your proverbial wing if you knew what we were up to all those years in the Cage. You know, your brother would do just about anything to take a day off from our little play dates? Begging, submission, demon blood - “

“Stop!” Sam shouted desperately. “Don’t. Please, don’t.” But Lucifer continued and Dean felt the horror choke him as bile rose in his throat.

“You know why I call him bunk-buddy, right? Or didn’t he tell you? I wouldn’t necessarily say Sam grew fond of sharing a bed with little old me, but - “

Sam launched himself at the angel, fists flying. He got in a single punch to the face before Lucifer flung him against the case. Glass shattered and Sam gasped as the shards he fell on ground into his side.

“That was very rude, Sam.” Lucifer’s voice - Cas’ voice? - had lowered to a growl and Sam flinched, trying to scramble away as his shirt was gripped within inhumanly strong hands and he was lifted up to meet Cas’ blue eyes. “You know, Metatron downloaded the information of every pop culture reference he’d ever read into dear Castiel’s mind. Did you know that? Having sorted through them, one thing I found particularly gorgeous … you know the Sith in Star Wars? You’ve seen Star Wars, right? That seems to be a pretty big thing for you humans. Anyways, the Sith, the bad guys, had this little thing called a shikkar blade. Basically it was a blade made of glass and when you stabbed someone and twisted the hilt, the blade broke off and just got … stuck in the victim’s body. It was meant for, y’know, personal grudges. Mortal enemies. That kind of thing.”

“No!” Dean shouted, fighting desperately against the psychic hold. If he focused, he could move ever so slightly, but it would have to be enough.

Sam was watching Lucifer, wide, terror-filled hazel eyes locked onto blue. “And you, Sam Winchester, you’ve been a pain in my angelic ass for far too long.” The words were snarled quietly, too quietly for Dean to hear. Sam struggled against the hold but one hundred and sixty years at the Devil’s mercy knew there was no getting out of this. Lucifer grabbed a long shard of the broken case and Sam’s breath caught in a strangled, escalating scream as the glass was pushed slowly through into his side. But then a flash of light and a shout of rage and Lucifer was gone. Sam hit the ground hard, biting out a cry as the harsh fall jarred his injuries.

“Sammy?” Dean was at his side, hands inspecting the wound in his side. The fall had broken it off regardless of Lucifer’s intentions. “Son of a bitch. C’mon Sam, we’ve got to get you out of here. How deep did it go?”

“All … all the way through,” Sam breathed through clenched teeth. “But I think it broke into pieces when I fell.”

“Okay. Okay.” Dean thought fast, but he knew there was only one option. “Alright, I’m taking you to the hospital, man.”

Sam’s eyes flew open in fear. “What? No. No, Dean!”

“Sammy, I don’t got a choice! I’m not a surgeon, if I miss a piece, you’re done for! Now get up, we’re going to have to be extra careful leaving.”

He hauled his little brother up with Sam’s arm around his neck, forcibly ignoring his brother’s moans as he walked awkwardly toward’s the exit. He’d lost track of time when Lucifer had shown up, but the guards had just changed rounds and were settling into their new positions. Dean thanked whomever was listening on high and eased the door open, closing it awkwardly behind them.

Sam sagged, his eyelids fluttering dangerously. The man was losing a lot of blood, but Dean didn’t dare wrap it in case it shifted the fragments of glass in his brother’s body and pierced something more vital than skin and muscle. “C’mon Sammy, stay with me,” he murmured as he carried them through the shadows. They were neither silent nor graceful enough to escape unseen and he caught three guards running after them with their guns out before he shoved Sam in the back seat of the Impala and keyed the ignition, speeding away as fast as possible.

“You with me, Sam?” he asked loudly as the Impala sped down the road. There were road signs for a hospital nearby and he drove swiftly, going well over the speed limit. Sam’s breath was shallow in pain and blood loss, but he was awake.

“Dean,” he whispered, trying to turn on his side to see his brother.

“Yeah, I’m right here man. Stay still, we’re going to get you some help, okay?”

“Not the hospital,” the younger man muttered, desperation seeping into the slurred words.

“Yes the hospital,” came the firm response. “You’re going to need surgery. I swear I’ll prison break you out of there after they’ve gotten all the glass out, but I can’t do that myself, Sammy.”

Sam’s words trailed off as Dean sped into the parking lot, completing a very impressive drifting park. He’d brag about it incessantly to Sam once they were home but, as it was, he barely noticed his superior driving skills. He merely shoved the keys in his coat pocket and hauled Sam out of the back, dragging him towards the ER doors.

“Help!” he shouted desperately. “Someone, we need help!” Sam lost consciousness and dragged Dean to the ground as paramedics ran out the doors at record pace. The rest was a chaotic blur. They wheeled Sam off on a stretcher and Dean tried to go with them, but he was stopped in the waiting room. He blurted out some feigned information for his brother. Something about emergency surgery and how they’d take care of him and everything was going to be fine.

Bullshit.

This situation was anything but fine and they didn’t know the half of it. He didn’t know where he’d blasted Lucifer and he didn’t know how long he’d be gone, but they had to get back to the Bunker as soon as possible. He barely registered the nurse bandaging his palm, which he’d managed to slice open for the banishing spell with his pocketknife while Lucifer had been distracted with his hatred for his brother.

Slowly, slowly, the taunts that Lucifer had uttered came back to him as he waited endless hours. “Sam. Oh god, Sammy.”

Demon blood.

Unholy supplication.

Defilement.

Desecration beyond description.

He was sure there was more, but Sam had effectively put an end to the sick gloating. Still, that let Dean’s mind wander to places he’d never wanted to explore and he barely made it to the trash can before he’d heaved up the diner food from earlier that evening. He gasped raggedly before his stomach forced up more half-digested food.

“Sir? Sir, are you ok?”

The doctor. Sam’s doctor. Dean forced back another wave of nausea and wiped his face, spitting into the trash can. “How’s Clark?” he asked desperately, using the spur-of-the-moment pseudonym he’d created when Sam had been rushed back.

“He made it through surgery fine,” the doctor stated. A woman. Dean couldn’t make out her physical features through his subdued horror and anxiety, but he saw her name tag said ‘Dr. Abdullah, M.D.’

“The surgery went on longer than we expected. There were several shards of glass that needed to be removed. Your brother’s a lucky man, sir. He had several internal lacerations from the glass, but none of them were too serious. He lost a significant amount of blood, but he’s on a transfusion and he’ll need another one tomorrow. He’s stitched up and in the recovery room. He’ll be out for awhile, we put him on some pretty strong pain meds. We’ll have to keep him for a few days. What happened, exactly?”

Dean rattled off some fabricated story about falling through a window, showing his bandaged palm to push the story’s credibility. Dr. Abdullah accepted it easily enough and led him back to the recovery room. Dean rushed to Sam’s side, hands checking vitals and the doctor smiled gently at him, assuring the older man that his brother had been well taken care of and would be perfectly fine. She walked back the way she’d come and a tear fell from Dean’s cheek and onto Sam’s hand near the IV site. He brushed it off absently and squeezed his brother’s hand gently.

“C’mon, Sammy,” he murmured quietly. “You’ve gotta stop scaring me like that. Rest up, we’ll get going in a few hours, ok?”

Sam’s face was pale and stressed, even knocked out on opiates and it broke Dean’s heart. He didn’t know what to do about any of this. About Lucifer. About Cas. About Sam. Right now he couldn’t do anything about Lucifer _or_ Cas so he had to focus on Sam, but his little brother was seriously injured and recovering from emergency surgery and would be harder than ever to coax out of the Bunker after the night’s events.

He stood up abruptly, needing movement before he drove himself crazy. He paced around the recovery ward, making sure to keep Sam in sight. There was only one other patient and they were similarly doped up. Doctors didn’t seem to come in too often and the nurses only came in to check vital signs before they were out the door again. When his watch read five in the morning, he slowed Sam’s morphine drip and injected his line with a small amount of adrenaline before raiding for medical supplies. He shoved a few litres of saline with IV lines and catheters into his bag before picking the lock to the medication stores in the back and loading up on morphine, lighter pain medications, antibiotics, antivirals, anything he could safely get away with that they couldn’t get at a pharmacy.

_He’ll need another transfusion tomorrow,_ the doctor’s voice reminded him in his head and he sighed. “Dammit.” He cast a swift look at Sam and left the bag under his bed before slipping out the door and dodging medical personnel to slink into the hospital’s blood stores. He’d slipped two bags under his shirt. Out of everything, this felt the dirtiest and he pushed aside his dubious morals. Sam needed them right now, he was scheduled to get them and one extra for future emergencies wouldn’t go amiss. He could store them in the cooler until they got home and he could stick them in one of the various fridges for safekeeping.

By the time he returned to the recovery ward, Sam was struggling in his bed, half-awake and panicking. “Hey, hey, hey!” Dean said, rushing to his side. “Easy there, tiger. You’re in the hospital. We’re good to go. I need you to stay calm so I can get us out of here, okay?”

“Dean?” Sam murmured, trying to clear his blurred vision and the cotton swabs clouding his mind.

“Yeah, it’s me Sammy. Just chill, I’ve got everything you need. We can sneak out the corridor, but I need you to focus and walk as best you can, ok? No, leave your IV alone, I’m keeping it in.”

Sam was trying to pry the catheter out of his hand, but Dean batted the attempts away firmly and stuck the blood bag currently transfusing through the line into the backpack as well, careful not to pull on the line as he shrugged the bag over his shoulders. There was no way Sam was getting out of his hospital gown with the line, but he helped his brother into his pants, socks and boots and hefted him up with an arm around his waist, careful of the stitching covering his brother’s abdomen.

He grunted as Sam leaned heavily on him, realizing with irritation that the psychic hold that had rendered him so useless must have cracked a few of his ribs. Adrenaline and prioritizing his brother had hidden the pain from him, but he was getting tired and his own injuries were complaining. There would be time enough to see to them later. They needed to get out of this deathtrap before Lucifer came looking for them.

Doing his best to act without worry, he supported his brother down the hall, smiling and nodding at the random nurse or janitor. It looked bad and he knew that, but they seemed to accept his excuses of helping his brother back to his room from his bathroom with minimal suspicion and they snuck out to Baby through a side door. Dean placed his brother gently in the back, laying down a sheet so he wasn’t laying in his own bloodstains. He moved the cooler to the front seat and emptied out the beer, replacing the alcohol with the blood bags Sam would need later. His current infusion was taken out of the backpack and hung up on the suit hanger to allow the transfusion to progress during the nine hour drive back to Lebanon. Dean took one last look at his brother, watching him slip back to sleep under the influence of the morphine, and drove away back to the safety of their home.


	7. Fortress of Solitude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> // // denote ASL as opposed to verbal speech. 
> 
> Chapter title taken from Audiomachine's piece: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_V4A8eW4mSM

The void was so much more welcoming than anything he’d had in a very long time. Longer than he could remember. He recognized the effects as heavy medication, but he didn’t care enough to fight against the haze. There was no dreaming, no memory. A warm, heavy black embraced his senses and he wanted so desperately to stay. The void was safe.

As the medication wore off, the void was infected with clarity. The pain came first; a pervasive ache that blossomed with time into something sharp and hateful. He felt his breath catch and his body shift with discomfort. Something moved, had been smothering his chest and a small moan dislodged from his throat. Pain? Fear? He couldn’t tell, but the feeling of security he’d grasped was disappearing with alarming speed. Someone was there and he couldn’t see. His eyes weren’t working properly and he couldn’t speak, but he was in pain and someone was _there._

The weight disappeared from his bed, but he couldn’t relax. Memories, recent memories, were beginning to flash through his mind like a highlight reel and he knew that safety had only been an illusion. Was that Lucifer in bed with him? God, not again. _Please_ not again.

“Stop.” His throat worked painfully as he tried to speak. “Please, don’t. Just leave me alone. Please.”

He felt fingers card through his hair and he flinched sharply. A ragged breath, a tear slipping past closed eyes and the hand was swiftly removed. Sam became aware of a voice, echoing awkwardly against the dredges of fading medication.

“Sam? Sammy?”

“Dean,” he whispered.

“That’s right, Sammy. We’re at the Bunker. You’re in your bed. It’s all good, man. You’re safe. Do you understand that?”

Dean’s voice meant safety and safety meant it was ok to leave the void. Sam worked harder to wake up, blinking his eyes rapidly to try to clear the colours and images swimming together. It took a few moments; pain meds had always made him groggy and it was difficult to focus, but Dean kept murmuring quiet reassurances to him and, eventually, he was able to see his older brother leaning over him carefully.

“Dean.”

“Hey, dude. You slept for friggin’ ages, that’s got to be a record. No, leave that alone.”

Sam had been scratching at something in his hand. An IV line, when he looked. He traced the tubing up to a stand where a blood bag dripped slowly, piggy-backed to a litre of saline. He frowned in confusion. “What … ?”

“You lost a lot of blood. You’ve been out a long time, man. I had to get you to the hospital and they threw you right into emergency surgery. You’ve been unconscious virtually since we got to the hospital.”

His side shot through with pain, making him tense and grit his teeth. “How bad?”

“Pretty bad,” Dean admitted. “You had a lot of glass broken up in your insides. They got them all and there was no critical damage, but you were in serious danger until they got them out.”

“I’m sorry,” he apologized quietly, recognizing the haunted fear of loss in Dean’s eyes.

“The hell you apologizing for?” Dean demanded. “That was no one’s fault. That was a stroke of unbelievable bad luck, but there’s no one to blame. You hearing me Sam? You’re not allowed to beat yourself up about this. I’m fine. You’re going to be fine. No one died.”

He felt a hand on his shoulder and he jumped, head turning around so fast he thought he might get whiplash. Worried mahogany eyes were staring at him and he blinked stupidly, confused. “Eileen?”

A small smile lit her face. “Dean called me.”

He turned back to Dean. “You called Eileen?”

Dean shrugged the question off, almost embarrassed. “Thought you could use the company,” he muttered and Sam didn’t know whether to laugh or sigh a breath of relief.

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” the woman said apologetically, moving a half-step back. She looked guilty, but Sam shook his head and held out his free hand to her. She relaxed and took it, squeezing gently.

Dean moved out of the way so she could sit down on the bedside and Sam struggled into a half-upright position, leaning heavily on the pillows at his back. “Your transfusion should be done soon and I’ll run the saline through after that. How are you feeling? You in pain?”

“I’m fine, Dean,” Sam said quietly.

“I’m not asking if you’re fine or not, Sam. I know you’re not _fine._ I’m asking for statistics here. One out of ten assessments, so help me out.”

Sam sighed, but mentally went through his physical checklist, noting if anything was out of place or off in any way. “Whatever pain meds you gave me are making it hard to think. I feel like I’m in a fog. Other than that, I’m just really tired and everything hurts, but it’s not bad enough to dose me up.”

Dean nodded in satisfaction. “You hungry?”

“Not really.”

“Well too bad. I’ll make you soup or something, but you haven’t eaten in close to forty-eight hours. You need fuel. Want tea?”

Another sigh at Dean’s mothering. “Yeah, sure.” Dean always felt better when there was something to do and taking care of Sam would help his anxiety about the mess they were in, so Sam would let him.

“Good man,” Dean said cheerily. “I’ll be back in a bit, you lovebirds rest up. Eileen, make sure he _rests.”_

Eileen’s eyes sparkled with laughter. “We’ll be fine, Dean. Sam will be fine.”

Dean nodded for a moment, shifting awkwardly before letting out a quiet “Yep” to himself and walking out the door towards the kitchen. Sam rolled his eyes, but pulled Eileen down carefully. He didn’t want to talk, he just wanted to hold her for awhile and she seemed to understand that. After Dean brought in mugs of tea for them both, Sam tapped her on the shoulder and she propped herself up to watch him.

//Did he pull you away from something important?// he asked, hands working awkwardly against the line taped in his hand.

Eileen shook her head with a reassuring smile. //I was working a case, but it was very simple. I did all the work and was about to finish it when Dean called. I called someone close by to take care of it. You’re more important than a job already done.//

Sam offered a small smile and shook his head, but she seemed earnest and he let the matter be. //I missed you,// he signed, after kissing her hands gently. //You should stop by more often.//

She shrugged. //You’ve been so busy lately and I know it’s important so I didn’t want to distract you. There’s signs all over. The Darkness?//

//Among other things,// he signed back grimly. Eileen cocked her head with a frown, the question written on her face. //Lucifer,// was all he signed. They’d given Satan a name-sign in an attempt to lighten the burden on Sam’s shoulders. The letter L held up to the forehead like a high-schooler calling a freshman ‘loser’, but the name still drove fear into both of them and Eileen paled.

//He’s back?// she asked, the tension evident in her hands as she signed to him. Sam nodded, gesturing to himself and the medical equipment and fear sparked into anger. //He did this to you?// she demanded, signs taking on a sharp edge. He half shrugged and, without significant detail, explained everything from his visions to meeting with Lucifer to Cas giving consent for the Devil to possess his vessel.

//Why would he do that?// he threw out angrily. //He knows, better than you, what that means. He knows that means what side he chose. Why would he do this?//

Eileen was still for a long time, a hand rubbing soothingly along Sam’s arm. Dean came and went, bringing them soup. He said a few words to Eileen and adjusted Sam’s infusion but, for the most part, he left them to their own company.

“Sam,” she called gently after awhile. He turned to look at her, eyes filled with fatigue and betrayal. She smiled sadly at him. //I know we haven’t known each other very long,// she signed. Her movements were slow and cautious. //And I know I never met Castiel, but Dean’s told me a lot about him. And he told me a lot about the struggles you were having, although he didn’t tell me what the issue was. So maybe this isn’t my place, but … //

She trailed off, biting her lip slightly. Sam frowned at her conflicted expression and shifted uncomfortably. //Dean said he’s the Winchester guardian angel. I don’t know if he meant that literally or not, but … look, I know you doubt yourself. I know you doubt your worth. Don’t look at me like that, it’s plain on your face. It haunts your eyes. But think about it this way. Even if you can’t accept that Castiel loves you, he loves Dean. And everyone knows what Dean would do to anyone who meant you harm.//

The frown on Sam’s face deepened as she continued. //You’ve told me Lucifer is back. That scares the literal hell out of me. And I can see what it’s doing to you. But I think you need to keep as many friends as you have, for as long as you can. This thing with Lucifer and the Darkness, it’s bad. It could mean the end of the world. So any positive memories, any happy connections you have or had with the angel, just promise me you’ll hold on to those. You don’t have to forgive him if you don’t want to, even though I think you should try. I’m not saying you have to risk yourself or Dean to save him. But I think he imagined it was the right thing to do to save you and save the world, even if that risked your friendship. I think he did it to save you and Dean. His family.//

Sam looked away and grit his teeth angrily, but a tear slipped out and traced along his temple, betraying his feelings of conflict. “I’ll let you get some rest,” came her voice, and he nodded silently. “I told Dean I’d stay for awhile, so I’ll be around, okay Sam?”

“Okay,” he mouthed silently. When she closed the door behind her, Sam Winchester cried.

 

_____________________________________________________________

 

“How is he?” Dean asked as Eileen walked into the room. He was fiddling with containers, putting the rest of the soup away.

“You need to turn around so I can see you,” Eileen said, and Dean sent an apologetic look her way, repeating the question.

“He’s upset,” she said. “Conflicted. He really cares for your angel - “

“Cas,” Dean interrupted, absently gripping the countertop. “His name is Cas.”

“He really cares for Cas,” she amended gently. “I don’t know everything that happened between him and the Devil, but I know that Cas’ choice has ripped him open inside.”

Dean nodded slowly, sighing. “Yeah, I know. He has a right to be pissed, he really does. I’m just worried he’s going to give up on Cas and that, even if we rescue him, y’know … “

Eileen nodded sympathetically. “I don’t know how to help him,” she admitted. “You called me, but we haven’t known each other for very long, Dean.”

“I know,” Dean replied. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t see the looks you give each other. Or his smile that lights up whenever you two talk over video. Or the way he took to you teaching him to sign so that he could impress you.”

Eileen blushed. “I didn’t so much as teach him. He already knew a lot from college and his friend from school. I just sort of reminded him how to do it.”

“Even so,” Dean flashed a knowing smile. “He likes you, Eileen. And I can tell that you like him too.”

Her blush deepened as she poured herself a cup of coffee, taking a sip while keeping her back to Dean to hide her embarrassment. She turned when he tapped her shoulder gently.

“He needs you, Eileen.” His green eyes were full of anxious concern and sincerity. “You get to him in a way that I’ll never be able to and he needs someone besides me to listen to. Sam’s hurting. He’s hurting bad and he needs help, help that I can’t give him by myself.”

Eileen just smiled and took another sip of her coffee. “I know. Why do you think I came? It wasn’t just for his good looks.”

Dean’s eyes widened before he barked out a laugh. “Oh, man. You’re going to be so good for him. It’s about time Sam fell for someone that doesn’t like him just for his devilish good looks.”

Eileen smirked. “His ‘devilish good looks’ don’t harm anything,” she said, and Dean grinned again.

They went to check on Sam again and found him fast asleep, his half-eating bowl of soup on the bedside desk. Dean injected another dose of painkillers into Sam’s line and cleaned up the dishes. He and Eileen headed back to the kitchen to let his little brother sleep.


	8. House of Cards

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love me a good 4th-wall break. Absolutely no offense intended to anyone.
> 
> // // denotes ASL.
> 
> Chapter title taken from the Audiomachine piece: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XYgS4f8QJlM

Had Dean been an honest man, he would have admitted that half the reason he’d called Eileen was to keep Sam busy so that he could isolate himself.

Dean was a good man. One of the best, even. He was loyal. Possibly the best hunter in America, if not the world. He kept his promises. He was an incredible family man. He was selfless to a fault. But one trait that Dean rarely indulged in was honesty - especially to himself.

Throughout his life, he’d faced battles. Hell, his life was one continuous war. His lack of childhood, raising and looking out for Sammy, Hell, Alistair, the Apocalypse, Purgatory, the Mark, losing Sam more than once, losing Mom and Dad and Lisa and Ben … the list went on and on. Dean had always had to be the strong one. He’d been the one to carry them both out of the darkness and despair that hunted them tirelessly.

And that meant he’d had to lie to himself. Over and over and over again. He’d had to. They wouldn’t have made it otherwise. He’d buried everything he didn’t have the courage or the strength to face, burying those memories in iron-clad vaults deep within his mind.

But his house of cards was falling down.

Fists clenched against each other as he sat on the end of his bed. His eyes were shut tight against the images hurling themselves against his mental defenses.

Sam. His Sammy. Strung up by the throat, a glass spear piercing his side and his little brother’s tortured cries. But the hands intent upon Sam’s destruction hadn’t been Nick’s. They’d been Cas’.

Dean flinched sharply, trying to bury the memory like he buried everything else. Time passed and he struggled harder, but this wouldn’t be buried. They needed Cas back. He _needed_ Cas back and that meant facing this nightmare-fueled reality. It was Cas’ hands, Cas’ decision. Cas’ voice leaking unholy secrets about Sam’s time in the Cage. It had been Cas he’d banished to God-knew-where. It would be Cas who returned with Lucifer at the wheel and Cas’ blue eyes burning with hatred when they next crossed paths.

Fire torched a path down his throat when he took a deep swig of Bobby’s harsh moonshine. Just for awhile, he needed to forget. Eileen had Sam. Dean would pick up care for his brother again in the morning, or whenever he woke up. He couldn’t give less of a damn right now, he lied to himself. His imagination was trying to run wild with the things Lucifer had leeringly gloated about in the mansion and he … he couldn’t face pictures to go along with those impure secrets. Between that and Cas’ taking a backseat to such sinister depravity …

More liquid flames chased through his body. Alcohol was the solution to all of his problems. Cas was gone. Lucifer was set loose. Sam could barely look at him right now. They had lost so much, he and Sam, and they were steadily losing more. They had so little left. The universe owed them more than this. It owed them so damn much, but God seemed to get a kick out of their suffering. He vaguely recalled the ‘fan fiction’ they’d seen after discovering Chuck’s books. Fans of Supernatural seemed to revel in ‘angst’ and ‘whump’. Out of the fictional suffering of the Winchesters. But they had no idea. They had no goddamn clue and he wanted to take a blade to each and every one of those sons of bitches.

More alcohol and blessed black blossomed on the edges of his hazy vision. Another swig and Dean was gone, passed out cold in a painfully awkward position that he’d regret - or welcome - when the alcohol in his veins lost its grip on his unconscious mind.

 

_____________________________________________________________ 

 

Sam sat half-upright in bed, running gentle fingers along Eileen’s upper arm as she slept, curled into his side. She sighed quietly and shifted, just slightly, closer into his good side and he allowed himself a gentle smile. He glanced over at the clock, whose glowing-white numbers read out just past four in the morning. His morphine had run out and the pain had woken him from the void. He’d ached to return, but the pain of his wounds kept him sane enough as it was. It was something to focus on. Now that his saline and blood transfusions had been run, the IV line was gone anyways and Dean would want to lessen the dose of painkillers. It was better to just not have them at all in that case.

He sighed, reaching for the bottle of Ativan on his bed stand and turned the amber bottle over in his free hand, thinking quietly. Like Dean, he tended to bury what he couldn’t face, locking those memories in their own isolation cells. But this? This was just too important not to mull over, but he couldn’t do that without mind-numbing terror and sinking into a full-blown panic attack. So he popped off the white lid and shook a small pill into his palm and dry swallowed before leaning back and waiting for the medication to take hold.

When he felt even the strain of his injuries relax, he ran through the facts carefully. Cas had said yes to Lucifer. He ignored the wave of pain and betrayal that caused him and moved on. Lucifer was back top-side. The fear that knowledge provoked was harder to move past, but he struggled on. Lucifer was searching for Hands of God. That was less than ideal. As an archangel, as the _last_ archangel, he was one of the most powerful beings in creation. With God-power … Sam couldn’t even imagine. His mind shied away from even trying to picture that kind of abomination. He forced himself to move on to the next fact. Lucifer claimed he was the only one that could kill Amara. He’d been adamant about that fact. It had been the whole reason he’d tried to force a yes from Sam when he’d gone to ‘talk’ to him in Hell.

Okay. So that was … less bad. A hand rubbed his face tiredly and ran through his hair, ignoring the fire that blasted through his side at the movement. Logically, Lucifer was their best bet in the fight against the Darkness. Dean was next to useless. Sam wasn’t too far above that. Humans were just dust mites to God’s sister. God himself was out of the picture and the rest of the archangels were dead or insane. Lucifer was, actually, their best hope at saving the world this time. He scoffed at the thought, hatred shuddering it’s way through his body and Eileen frowned in her sleep, shifting. Sam stilled, not wanting to wake her.

He’d never admit it to Dean, but her presence was a soothing balm that his wounded, shattered soul needed. Feeling her sleep against him was a rare blessing and gentled his anxious mind. Her warmth chased the bitter cold gripping his consciousness. He knew it was dangerous to get involved in a relationship, even with a hunter, but after the siren hunt, he just couldn’t help himself. He’d fallen for her and he’d treasure this for as long as it lasted.

He pulled his mind back to the problem at hand, fingers resuming their slow pattern along Eileen’s skin. He could try his psychic powers again. He chewed on his cheek quietly as he mused this. Was that even possible? Did he even have that power anymore without the …

He winced at the shock of desire that rocked through him, shifting slightly. That was a dangerous gamble, toying with his powers. Even if he tried without the demon blood. That craving was never truly gone, not permanently. To try exercising his abilities … if it didn’t work, or if it worked but not to his fullest extent, that black voice in his mind would reason that he needed more juice. That the ends justified the means. And maybe they did in this case. They weren’t just talking about the end of the world, here. They were talking about the end of reality. But still, his mind shied away from the idea and he resolved to - cautiously - bring it up with Dean later. A last resort.

 _It doesn’t have to be_.

“Oh shut up,” he muttered out loud. He pushed the idea to the back of his mind until he could talk it over with Dean. It wouldn’t do any good to mull over it right now.

Eileen blinked slowly and looked up at him, sleep heavy in her brown eyes. “Who are you talking to?” she asked.

Sam’s lips twitched into a smile. “Who says I was talking to anyone?”

The woman slapped him gently on the chest. “I could feel you, the vibrations in your chest.”

Grinning, Sam kissed the top of her head. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I was just thinking out loud. Go back to sleep, I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“What time is it?” she asked, leaning over him to find the clock.

//Four in the morning.// He switched to ASL as she turned her gaze from his face.

“Oh,” she said simply and curled back up into his side. “Okay.” It only took a few seconds for her breathing to even back into slumber, and Sam held back a laugh. He doubted she’d even been truly awake. He kissed her hair again and settled slightly lower in bed. Sleep wouldn’t be coming for him tonight, but he could enjoy it through the woman he held close. He took a deep breath and chased away haunted memories.

 

_____________________________________________________________

 

Castiel ran a long finger along his lips, musing quietly. The television in front of him was playing another episode of some bad soap Dean had told him he had to watch. Doctor Sexy? He thought so, but the seraph’s mind was far away from such triviality. Echoes ricocheted inside his mind. Of course, everything ricocheted inside his mind. That’s where he was occupied after all, but these echoes were not the trite hobbies he had taken up recently to pass the time.

_Stop! Don’t. Please, don’t._

_Sammy! You stay away from him, you son of a bitch!_

_You know why I call him bunk-buddy, right? Or didn’t he tell you? I wouldn’t necessarily say Sam grew fond of sharing a bed with little old me, but …_

Cas’ eyes closed and he shook his head slowly. He was growing uneasy with this arrangement and it was difficult to sort out the truth when Lucifer was in Cas’ own mind.

He had confronted his older brother when he’d felt the terror and agony rip through his mental construct of the Bunker’s kitchen. When he’d felt the rage, the glee and the nauseating sadism coming from the Devil as he used Cas’ body, his hands, his voice to dole out suffering to his family.

“I’m _sorry_ , Castiel. How many times do you want me to apologize?”

“I told you before, when you went after Sam. If you want my cooperation, that line still holds. You _do not touch the Winchesters.”_

Lucifer had rolled his eyes with exaggerated disgruntlement. “How many more apologies do you want from me, man?”

“I don’t want apologies,” Cas had growled. “You _will_ keep your end of the deal.”

Lucifer’s eyes had glowed dangerously and the casual disregard had shifted to one of intimidating power. The archangel was flexing his wings, so to speak, reminding Castiel of the difference in their angelic classes. But the younger angel hadn’t backed down and Lucifer knew he needed the other’s cooperation. More powerful he might be, but Cas could force him out if he truly felt he needed to and the archangel needed the seraph’s power if he wanted to go toe-to-toe with Auntie Amara. He folded his wings back and relented, resuming that common mask of easy neutrality.

“Look, Castiel. Like I said, I’m sorry. I saw Sam and I just couldn’t help myself, you know? That delicious beanpole is just too much temptation and I had a moment of weakness. What can I say? I’m not perfect. The little fleaball’s alive and so is his galumping older brother. Everything’s good, so _chill._ The plan’s still on. We’re still going to lock our dear aunt away and everything will be peachy. Good?”

Castiel had acquiesced, but he was still uneasy. He was no fool; Lucifer was the Father of Lies. The Great Deceiver. He’d made a huge gamble when he gave his physical body up to Lucifer, but the fervent fanaticism and zealous belief in the archangel’s eyes had been enough to convince Cas that his older brother was their one and only shot at beating the Darkness. He would just have to “keep his ears on” as Dean would say, and watch the events unfolding outside of his mind more closely. There was nothing else he could do.


	9. Beyond Good and Evil

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from Audiomachine's piece: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-cTIES62q_s

“You’re bleeding.”

Sam looked over from the kitchen counter to find Dean staring at his abdomen. He looked down, watching a small spot of scarlet blossom on his white pajama shirt. “Oh.” He pulled his shirt off and inspected his stitches to see one of them had ripped. “I’m gonna need you to fix this.”

Dean patted a spot down next to him and got up to get the med kit. Sam sipped at his morning coffee, watching his older brother carefully. He’d been in an extremely bad mood for the past few days. Avoiding Sam, avoiding company at all. He hadn’t answered any phone calls and every word was tinged with anger, if he said anything at all.

He dropped his gaze as Dean sat back down, inspecting the area. A frown creased his brow as his fingers prodded gently around the stitching, making Sam wince. “You been messing with these?”

Sam swallowed guiltily and said nothing. He had, in fact. Not often, but when the memories of Lucifer got too much and his hand-scar didn’t work, he poked a bit at the area. The pain cleared his mind, made it easier to focus.

“Dude, these are medical-grade stitches. You can’t get any better than this, what kind of psycho screws that up on purpose?” Dean was glaring at him with an accusatory expression and Sam set his jaw, looking at the floor. “Whatever,” he heard Dean mutter and resisted the urge to shift nervously.

The broken stitch was removed carefully and Dean sterilized with the area, making Sam grunt in pain. There was no usual apology, no murmured jokes to take his mind off the suturing as the needle pierced his side and stitched him up. Sam glanced at him as his white-knuckled hand gripped the table, wondering what he could have possibly done to piss Dean off like this. If he had to guess, it was probably the secrets Lucifer had let slip. He wished Eileen was still here so he could fall back to his room for some comfort and reassurance, but she’d left to help a friend stuck on a difficult hunt last night. It was just him and his angst-ridden older brother.

_Lucky me,_ he thought grimly.

“Thanks,” he said quietly as Dean finished his work and took a long drink of his more-whiskey-than-coffee. There was no response, so Sam stood up, shifting his weight between his feet awkwardly for a long moment before walking towards the door. He paused again at the entrance. “Dean, I’m sorry. You have to know that.”

“What?”

“C’mon, man. Don’t … don’t make me explain. Just take the apology. Or don’t, whatever. Just don’t make me say it out loud. I did what I had to do in the Cage, but it didn’t follow me topside, and - ”

“Is that what you think?” Something caught in Dean’s voice and made Sam look at him. Horrified astonishment had wiped the anger from his older brother’s features, but Sam dropped his gaze again before it could shift back. “You think I’m pissed that you … that Lucifer … ?” Dean’s voice dropped and Sam heard him stand up, watched him walk over from the corner of his vision. He took a step back, but he flinched in surprise as Dean’s arms wrapped themselves around him in a strong embrace. Sam shifted awkwardly, confused at this unforeseen turn of events.

“Sammy, I … “ Dean’s voice dropped off and he stepped back before pointing at the table. “Sit. We need to talk.”

“Dean, I don’t think that’s - “

“Please. Please?”

Sam was still a moment before walking over and taking a seat at the table. Dean collapsed heavily across from him, hands playing with his mug for a long moment before clearing his throat.

“Look, Sammy. I’ve done my time in Hell. I’ve told you some things. There are other things that I will never give voice to, not to anyone. But one thing I know for sure. You hold out as long as you can. You fight your hardest. You spit in their faces, you tell them to bring it on and you keep that up for as long as you can, but eventually … eventually they find a way to break you.” Both brothers flinched sharply, keeping their gazes on the table. “And once they do that … Sammy, you’ll do anything to keep out of their way. Absolutely anything. You will beg, grovel, subjugate yourself in the worst of ways. You’ll become a creature you don’t even recognize if it means even a moment that you don’t have to spend in agony.

“What he did to you, there aren’t words. I know that. I know that there are things you will never tell me. There are things you keep locked away because if you face them, it’ll be the end of you. And Sam … none of that is your fault. Do you hear me?” Dean’s green eyes were staring at him earnestly, a watery glaze giving them an unnatural sheen. Sam’s eyes were glued to the table, hating himself for the droplet that fell onto the wooden surface. His body was tense and anguished, every muscle defining his desolation.

“I know that there are things you will never forgive yourself for. God knows I’ll never forgive myself for the things I did. But the thing is, Sam … you forgave me. You told me all of this when I was fresh topside, remember? Everything I’m saying to you is just a parrot act. These are all your words to me after my Hell tour. And even if you don’t believe those words from yourself, please believe them from me. You are not at fault for what happened in the Cage and I need you to try to tell yourself that.”

Sam gasped unhappily, gaze turning to the ceiling as he leaned back in his chair. Tears tracked their way down his temples and into his hair. “You’ve been so angry. I thought … I thought what Lucifer said. The begging, the … the demon blood. The rest … “ He flinched sharply, biting back moans at the unholy memories.

“Sam, how could I ever blame you for any of that under the circumstances? You were Satan’s personal chew toy for close to two centuries. You’re strong, Sam. You’re the strongest man I know, but if you survived that long without breaking, I wouldn’t believe you were human. It’s just not possible.”

“Yeah, well you might not think so kindly of me after what we need to discuss.” Sam rubbed the tears from his face fiercely. “Figure now is as good a time as any.”

Dean frowned, watching Sam. “What do we need to discuss?”

“Two things and I guess I’ll start with the roughest first. Please … you have to understand this comes from a practical point of view, alright? This isn’t the junkie I used to be talking.”

Dean’s frown deepened. “No. C’mon, Sam that’s not happening. No way.”

“It makes sense, Dean. We’re at the end of our rope, here. Maybe Cas was right and only Lucifer can beat Amara, but what if he can’t? And honestly, what if he can? What happens after that? Because he’s not going to go back to the Cage quietly. Either way, we’re talking about the end of the world here. Again.”

The elder Winchester’s jaw twitched angrily. “Yeah, and we always find a way. I can see where you’re coming from here, Sam. I really do. But it’s out of the question. Your last detox almost killed you and that’s if I can even catch you when everything’s peachy again.”

“Dean, is my soul really worth the cost of every life in the universe?”

“Damn straight!” The words were shouted and Sam jumped, looking up and catching Dean’s gaze for the first time in days. His eyes were angry, but the anger was born from fear. Fear of losing Sam to a fate worse than death. Dean looked away, running a hand over his mouth compulsively. “It’s not an option, Sam. It’s just not.”

Sam was equal parts relieved and angry, but he shoved the latter emotion down. That was just the demon blood talking. He deferred the point quietly. “Okay, Dean. I’m sorry. I knew it would upset you, I just thought the idea needed airing.”

“It’s okay, Sammy.” Dean’s voice was hoarse as he took a long gulp of his Irish coffee. “You’re not wrong to explore every option, but not every option is worth serious discussion, you know?”

“Yeah, I know Dean.”

“Look, I’m sorry I’ve been taking everything out on you, dude. It’s just … I need a win, you know? But everything’s screwed up with Cas and Lucifer and Amara and I’m just drowning. I can’t see a way out of this one.”

“We can let Cas do what he planned on doing,” Sam said slowly.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“I’ve been thinking, Dean. Cas wouldn’t have said yes to Lucifer if he didn’t fully believe in this Hail Mary. And from where I’m standing, I don’t really see another option either.” Dean was waving his hand for Sam to stop, but Sam continued. “I’m not saying you give up on Cas. Trust me, I’m not. I think I’ve made up my mind on that. But Cas believes in this mission - “

“Cas believes in all of his failed missions!” Dean shouted angrily. “What, you just want to leave him to Satan’s mercy? Aren’t you supposed to be against the Devil being out of his Cage?”

“What? Of course I am, Dean! What kind of stupid question is that? But his whole pitch to me in the Cage was that he was our only chance against Amara.”

“And you said no!”

“I did,” Sam said grimly. “And I meant it. But Cas volunteered. He did this willingly, he wasn’t forced into it.”

“Unless you mean forced into making an irrational decision based on Lucifer’s manipulative bullshit!”

Sam sighed and rubbed his face. “Dean, despite what I’m saying, I like this even less than you do. Even if you don’t think that’s true. You know how I feel about Lucifer. You know how screwed up I’ve been since I went to go see him in Hell. But I honestly think this is our only shot at stopping Amara.”

“Ok, you know when I said I wasn’t mad at you? Scratch that, you’re officially on the list.”

Sam threw his hands up in the air as Dean gulped the rest of his drink. “Look, man. At least think about it. That’s all I’m asking. You just said that I wasn’t wrong in exploring all the options.”

“Yeah, and I also said not every option is worth discussion. This? This is one of those times, Sam! I’m not leaving Cas to Lucifer’s mercy any longer than I have to!”

“Dean, I tried to get Cas to expel Lucifer. I tried to convince him to force him out and you know full well how that went! Cas isn’t going to listen to you. When he gets his head stuck on a goal, you know how impossible it is to change his mind!”

“Sucks for him,” Dean growled. “I’ll make that idiot see sense if I have to beat it into him.”

“Nice,” Sam drawled. “Let’s beat on him until he’s forced to listen. That’ll definitely work!”

Dean shot him a glare full of venom and Sam sighed, losing the sarcasm. “Dean, this isn’t about right and wrong anymore. This is beyond good and evil. This is about what it takes to stop the end of the world. Neither of us have liked the solution to any past apocalypse, why would this one be any different?”

“Because it has to be,” Dean spat out. “Every apocalypse, we’ve lost someone. You, me, Cas. We always lose one of us and there’s never any guarantee that we’ll get that person back. I can’t … I can’t keep losing people, Sammy. I just can’t. So either we get everyone out in one piece, or we all go down together.”

Sam’s eyes widened in shock. “Dean … “

But Dean shook his head, holding his hand up for silence. “I need some air,” he muttered and stood up.

“Dean, wait!”

But Dean had rushed down the hallway and Sam ran after him, stopping as he heard the Impala roar to life and the screech of tires as Dean escaped the hauntings of their conversation. Sam’s face fell. He had known this would upset Dean, but he hadn’t expected him to take it _this_ badly. He punched himself mentally, berating himself for not bringing it up at a better time and headed to the library to look up more Hands of God and wait for his brother to come home.


	10. Strictly Taboo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not truly happy with this chapter, but I'm having a rough go of it in real life and I don't have the patience to wait since most of my writing is for catharsis and a means to cope with what's going on. So I hope it's not too shitty and I'll get to everyone's comments when I'm feeling better. I read and appreciate them regardless, so thank you <3 
> 
> Chapter title taken from Audiomachine's piece: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gFov9G9ZCoc

The next few weeks were difficult. Sam healed swiftly, as he always had, but there was a constant source of stress in the bunker. Even after Sam desisted to Dean’s ultimatum that Lucifer had to go before Amara did, there was frustration with each other, with their umpteenth impending doom, with Cas’ situation, with their whole damn reality. There was just so much wordless tension. They didn’t speak of it unless it was to formulate a plan, but as the clock ticked away, it got worse and worse.

All of the sudden the stars aligned in the the most unexpected way and something hit the proverbial trigger point. Everything exploded so _fast._ Crowley returned, helped them try to force Lucifer out of Cas. Amara had materialized at the threat of Dean’s life. Lucifer had failed to put a dent in the Darkness, even with the full power of a Hand of God and that had carved something into everyone’s souls, something so desolate and hopeless. That last resort they had refused to take had been attempted anyways and it had failed. There was nowhere to go from here.

Then … _God_ had appeared. Capitol G God. Sam was still reeling from that and he thought Dean probably was too, although for vastly different reasons. Dean had to come to terms with the fact that God was real, that he had knowingly stepped back on the world. And even with Sam’s devotion and his faith and all the reasons that God’s - Chuck’s - explanation had made sense, it had still cut him deep. Their Hell tours, the agony of being the True Vessels of God’s highest sons, the people they had lost, Sam’s demon blood infection … Chuck had stepped away and while Sam was grateful for the times He _had_ stepped in - resurrecting Cas and Bobby, evacuating Sam and Dean from Lucifer’s influence when he’d escaped the Cage - it had still changed Sam’s view of the Divine.

The real kicker had come with the knowledge that they had to rescue Lucifer. Dean had been all in just to save Cas, but Sam had struggled so hard. Rescuing Cas would be one thing, but that wasn’t the mission. The mission was to _save Lucifer_ and bring him _back_ _to the Bunker_ and then to _keep him in Cas’ meat suit_ to help Chuck beat Amara. That had triggered something in Sam and he’d burst out of the Bunker in a mess of shaking, gasping terror.

“Sam! Sammy!”

He could hear Dean rushing to him, but Sam’s feet kept moving, muscle memory serving as a guide for his senseless fear. He couldn’t see, he couldn’t feel, but he could run and he was running so far, so fast towards any means of safety, but there was no safe place left on Earth for him to hide.

“Sam, stop!”

But Sam kept running, right up until his shoe snagged on an open root system and he went down. The hard ground knocked the panicked breath from his chest and it felt like the times Lucifer had crushed his body, bones breaking and snapping and lungs smothered and he couldn’t scream, he couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t beg for mercy, he couldn’t -

“Sam! Sam, focus!”

Someone was shaking him and oxygen returned to his lungs, painfully swift. Sam gasped, struggling against those binding hands, but they were shaking him again.

“Sammy! C’mon, man. Focus! It’s just me, Sammy. It’s Dean. I’m right here, you’ve gotta calm down!”

Dean. Dean was here, which meant …

He gasped again, suddenly aware of the cries and pleas littering the air around them.

“English, dude. I need you to speak English, I can’t understand Enochian. C’mon, Sammy, come back to me.”

English? English meant pain. English meant torment, but the hands holding him, although firm, weren’t causing harm. The touch on his face, brushing back his hair was fervent, but gentle. Worried. The haze of colour in his vision sharpened slowly and Dean’s face came into focus, but it wasn’t washed with the yellow lights of the bunker. He was shaking and hyperventilating and his surroundings didn’t make sense, but Dean was in front of him and the light wasn’t the hazy red from Hell and the only pain he felt was the roots grinding into his back and the bruising developing on his ribs.

“Dean,” he forced out breathlessly, face contorting in a wince as he shifted position.

“Heya, Sammy. Everything’s good, sit up. That doesn’t look comfortable.”

Sam followed Dean’s lead and sat up, looking around. Sunlight glittered through the green tree cover above them. An occasional leaf drifted down in a lazy pattern to fall upon the running path through the forest that Sam took so often in the mornings. A frown creased his brow as he realized he was over a mile from the bunker. Dean was breathing heavily; he must have run hard and far to catch up to Sam.

Dean strung his jacket around the other man’s shoulders and Sam realized he was shaking badly. He felt cold in his soul, the kind of pervasive, burning cold that only Lucifer could create. He remembered why he’d run in the first place and his tremors increased, his breathing accelerating dangerously.

“We can’t … Dean, we can’t! Please!”

“Sam, calm down. I need you to stay calm. Deep breaths, Sammy. In … count to five … out, there you go … three, four, five. Good, in again … “

Dean’s hand was splayed across his chest, guiding his lungs as they caught and released air. The fear stayed rooted in Sam’s hazel eyes, but he stopped hyperventilating after a few minutes. Dean kept his hand on Sam’s chest, continuing to guide the breathing exercise, but he sat back and ran his free hand across his mouth in agitation. Sam’s eyes never left his face; his brother was his only current anchor to sanity.

“Sammy.”

So much emotion threaded through his little brother’s name. Hope for Cas and the future. Fear at teaming up with Lucifer. Guilt at even considering offering Sam’s tormenter housing. Agony and grief at seeing his little brother so worked up like this. Anger at the fact this was how it had to be.

“Sammy,” he tried again, but Sam was shaking his head.

“No. _No._ ”

“You were all for it a few weeks ago,” Dean protested weakly.

“No. No I wasn’t. It was a last resort, but we know he’s useless now and we were never going to _work with him._ We were never going to _keep him under our roof!”_

_C’mon, bunk-buddy. You know how much fun I can be when we’re together …_

Sam flinched sharply with a swallowed cry of fear. He pressed hard against his palm-scar and Lucifer’s visage dissipated into the air. “It’s going to be the Cage all over again,” he moaned, horrified.

“No.” Dean was firm, his voice loud and furious. “Absolutely not, Sam. If you think I’m going to let that son of a bitch even _look_ in your direction, you’ve got this all wrong. God - Chuck - won’t let him touch you either, and that’s more protection than I could ever hope to give you. Sam, you will be _safe_. On my life. On mom’s life. On friggin’ _God_ who will hold me to my word because he’s in the damn Bunker. And once we’re done with him, he is all yours, Sammy. We’ll kick him out of Cas and you can ice the Devil and it will _all be over.”_

“I want to believe that, Dean,” Sam said hoarsely. “But you don’t know him like I do and it’s not going to be that easy.”

“Of course it’s not, Sam. I know that. But we’ll find a way. Lucifer will never touch you again.”

If Sam could trust one person in this messed up world, it was his older brother. It was Dean, whom he would watch die if the Darkness wasn’t stopped and the threat of losing Dean was stronger than his fear of the Devil, so he said yes and the plan to rescue Lucifer from Amara’s clutches proceeded. And so, while Dean distracted the Darkness, Sam found himself stepping out of the Impala with only Metatron and the newest Prophet of the Lord, eyes filled with trepidation as he regarded the silo.

There was no missing Lucifer, still possessing Cas, as they walked into the shoddy building. He was shackled upright, a mess of blood and beatings and, despite the growing fear in his belly, Sam relished the pain the archangel must be in, savoring it like an expensive bottle of scotch.

Metatron rushed ahead with Donatello close behind, but Sam stayed back. Every step forward was forced, measured and careful. If it hadn’t been for the Ativan he’d taken just before they’d left, his legs would have given out by now. As it was, every instinct was screaming at him to run. He barely registered the sassed words leaving Lucifer’s mouth and his own answering replies. He focused on keeping an ear out for disturbances while Metatron muttered counter-spells under his breath and the Prophet at his side merely stared at the first fallen angel with his mouth agape.

The Scribe of God shouted Enochian, making Sam flinch. The angel’s eyes were shut tight in concentration and Lucifer fell limply to the ground. After that, everything moved at double speed. Amara was coming and, before he could think about it, he had Lucifer’s arm over his shoulder and was dragging the archangel out of the silo. He had moved impulsively; thinking was dangerous and even now, he could feel the cold radiating off of his cargo, seeping into his bones, his soul. He thought about Dean, thought about their mission, anything to take his mind off of the fact that not only was he saving the being who had tortured him for centuries, but he was doing it with his own, physical hands.

Suddenly Lucifer was in the Impala, in his home. He was sitting _right next to him_. Sitting _in his spot_ and the only thing that kept him from vomiting in fear was the knowledge of their imminent demise if he didn’t get them the hell out of there. Donatello was babbling warnings as Sam stepped on the accelerator. But as good as Baby was, she couldn’t power past God’s sister when she appeared in front of them so suddenly.

The Impala slammed into the Bunker’s garage and Sam stumbled out, heading inside. The change in scenery had him reeling, but at least they were out of the Darkness’ clutches. “We’re home,” he breathed in relief, eyes roving gratefully over the front room.

“Occasionally, I do answer a prayer,” Chuck said idly, bringing in a six pack. Sam didn’t know what to say to that, but found he didn’t have to. He had forgotten Lucifer’s presence in the heat of their narrow escape, but the archangel was leaning heavily against a pillar, glaring at his father. A flash of too-bright white and Lucifer’s injuries disappeared, and Sam felt the pervasive poison of fear slam back into his soul. The Devil was whole, he was healed and that meant he was back at full power. That meant he was dangerous and it showed in the way he straightened Cas’ body slowly. It reminded Sam of the times Lucifer had flaunted his power, veiled wings casting dominating shadows and red fire alighting in his eyes before he plunged into Sam’s body and soul.

Sam had bolted.

He found himself in his bathroom, bent over the toilet as his stomach violently emptied what little it had held. Even after it was empty, he gagged in mindless fear for what felt like hours and when that stopped, he rummaged feverishly through the cabinets for something, _anything_ that would make this situation alright. It was a futile exercise. For all intents and purposes, he was back in Hell. Back in the Cage. It didn’t matter that Chuck was there, Lucifer would come for him and he knew it.

Banging interrupted his search and a small cry of fear sounded too-loudly against the walls. He threw himself back against the wall, chest heaving in anticipation.

“Sammy? You in there?”

“D-Dean?”

“Yeah, it’s me. Open up, dude.”

Sam hurriedly unlocked the door and threw it open. Dean looked his brother up and down, swiftly assessing the state Sam was in before gently grasping his arm and leading him to Dean’s room. He sat Sam down on the bed and popped open an amber bottle, placing another Ativan in Sam’s hand. “Swallow,” he commanded, but unlike every other obedient time, Sam shoved the little white pill back at Dean, shaking his head fervently.

“No, no, no. He’ll come for me, I have to be ready, I have to - !”

Dean shook his brother firmly, effectively shutting him up. “I’ll take care of Lucifer. Let me take care of you too. He won’t touch you, not on my watch. Now swallow, Sam. You need to calm down, you’re losing it. Don’t lose it on me.”

Sam recognized the fear in Dean’s eyes and followed the order. If he knew one thing, it was that Dean came before himself. So he ignored the screaming in his mind and swallowed the Ativan dry, fidgeting anxiously and compulsively watching the door as though the Devil might burst in at any moment.

“You can stay in my room,” Dean offered quietly. “I know you don’t want to be alone right now. Take the bed, I can take the floor. You can stay here until we gank his ass, alright?” Sam nodded, eyes locked on the closed door. “Good. I’ll be back in a few minutes. I’m going to get you some food, some coffee and a whole lot of whiskey. I’m coming back. Do you understand that, Sam?”

Sam tore his eyes away from the door and looked at Dean for a long moment before nodding slowly, as though he wanted to believe, but couldn’t quite force himself to. Dean painted on a smile and walked back out, closing the door quietly before stalking down the hall, fire sparking furiously in his eyes. He saw Lucifer strolling down the hall and he slammed the Devil against the wall, glaring into Cas’ blue eyes.

“Listen here, you son of a bitch,” he said, voice dangerously low.

“Watch it, that’s dad you’re talking about,” Lucifer quipped sarcastically. Dean threw a punch, hearing his nose break. Cas could live with a broken nose.

“I said listen, and I meant it,” Dean snarled. “You touch a single hair on Sam’s head. You look in his direction, you even _walk into the same room_ , and you won’t get to see how this plays out because I will _end_ you. Do you understand me.” The question was more a statement of force than an actual query, and Lucifer snickered.

“You’re so cute when you’re angry. Even sweet old Castiel thinks so. You can spout those hard-ass insults all you want, Dean, but we both know you can’t kill me. Even if you could, you wouldn’t because you _need_ me. Isn’t that why Dad sent you to fetch me? Why Sammy came to the rescue? Unless he actually misses our play-dates, they were very - “

Dean threw another punch, connecting with Cas’ eye. “I think you underestimate me here. You threaten my brother and I won’t hesitate to put you in the ground, no matter the consequences.” He threw Lucifer back against the wall a final time, ignoring the sneer that was sent his way, and stalked off to the kitchen to grab some sustenance for him and Sam. It was going to be a long couple of weeks.


	11. 11 Days in Hell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Violent depictions of torture. This is an unhappy chapter with an unhappy ending.
> 
> Chapter title taken from Audiomachine's piece: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dPaW82HuZZo

A long yawn split Sam’s face as he trudged tiredly into the kitchen. His body hurt from being on the floor all night. It had been a long fight, trying to convince Dean to take the bed, but eventually he’d convinced him by admitting he probably wouldn’t sleep anyways. If one of them was taking the bed, it would be the one with the most chances for sleep success and that person certainly wasn’t Sam. Dean had grudgingly ceded to that, but he’d voiced his disapproval for several minutes afterwards.

As it turned out, Sam had gotten some sleep despite his beliefs. The constant dose of Ativan had finally taken its toll and knocked him out for a solid hour before he’d woken up in a cold sweat, sprawled out upon the bedroom floor. He’d stretched silently for another twenty minutes, trying to work the kinks out of his creaking joints and muscles until he heard the Bunker’s heavy door clang shut and he’d breathed a sigh of relief. Lucifer must have stormed out for some air and distance from his father. He’d glanced at Dean to make sure his snoring brother was still deeply asleep and slipped through the door. He hated staying cooped up at the best of times, but keeping to a single, shared bedroom twenty-four seven was driving him crazy, even with the dangers of leaving his small haven. So he’d take what he could get while Lucifer was out.

Water was poured into the coffee maker, grounds measured out and a mug grabbed from the cupboard before Sam sat down heavily at the kitchen table and rubbed his face. It was just past four in the morning, much earlier than he typically woke up. The hour of sleep he’d gotten had, ironically, left him much more fatigued than if he’d just been up all night and he strongly debated camping out at a nearby motel for as long as this screwed up truce held. Lucifer in the Impala, Lucifer in the Bunker. It was a perversion and desecration of all he considered safe and now he was safe nowhere. He tried to fight the desolate blackness blooming in his worn-down soul, eating away at him like a cancer. He had to be ok; for Dean, for their mission, for the fate of the world - again. But he couldn’t be ok for himself. There was no hope for Sam while Lucifer had him under his thumb and he’d be a fool to think that wasn’t the case. It wouldn’t matter that Sam had saved the archangel from Amara’s torment. Sam had locked Lucifer away in the Cage, had denied him his true vessel. That was all that mattered to Lucifer and Lucifer never forgave.

Ceramic shattered in a piercing, sharp noise and Sam yelped quietly as the pieces cut superficial lines into his hands. He frowned, realizing he must have gripped the mug too tightly in his desolate musings.

“Great. Just great,” he muttered darkly, sweeping the pieces into his hand and tossing them into the trash. The water was freezing as he ran his hands through the stream, making him flinch. The cuts were more scrapes upon closer inspection and nothing he needed to seriously attend to. He dried them carelessly on the kitchen towel and stalked across the room to grab a new mug.

“Heya, Sammy,”

The mug fell from Sam’s numb hands and shattered on the floor. His body was taut, frozen in place and he tried to convince himself it was just Dean behind him, but the voice. He _knew_ that voice, even when it came from Cas’ mouth.

“Lucifer.”

“Alone. At. Last.” The words were drawn out, savored.

Enochian.

“Been a long time, Sammy. You miss me?”

“Y-You went out. I heard the door … “

“Yeah, that was Dad. He likes to watch the sunrises or whatever. Kind of an ego-stroking, considering it’s His creation or whatever.”

Sam nodded slowly, his back still to Lucifer. “Right. Well, um. I was just grabbing coffee, so I’m going to just go back to my room.”

“You weren’t in your room last night, bunk-buddy. Trust me, I waited for you. No-call, no-show? That’s not very nice of you.”

Sam felt the blood drain from his face, his racing heart surging beat-for-beat in his ears. First the Impala, then the Bunker, _now his room._ He fought against the tremors attempting to wrack his spine to splinters as the all-familiar fear began to set in. “Well I hope you enjoy the room and your stay,” he bit out, voice fighting to rise above a whisper. “I’m just going to grab my coffee and leave you to it.”

“Oh, I think we both know that’s not going to happen,” Lucifer purred. “Dad’s out, Dean’s still in bed. We have the whole bunker to ourselves! It’s like the Cage, but with less … Hell.”

“D - !” Pressure mounted on his throat, which contracted and spasmed painfully, trying to call out for Dean, for anyone, but ice filled his vision as Cas’ bright blue eyes stared him down and how was his back pressed against the wall when he’d been facing the cupboard? His hands clawed against the freezing grip on his neck, fingers scrabbling uselessly at Lucifer’s grasp.

Lids cloaked the blue momentarily as the archangel smiled, biting his bottom lip softly. “I forgot how heated your skin is, Sam. How deliciously soft you feel struggling beneath my hands.” Eyelids flew open and red-hot fire melted the familiar blue, drawing horror-stricken memories of Lucifer’s true face. “Now, I’m going to let go, and you’re going to stay quiet. Or would you rather I intervened when your big brother bursts in to interrupt us?”

Sam’s eyes flew wider and he shook his head imperceptibly, desperately. Lucifer nodded in satisfaction and released his hostage, leaving the weak, human man to gasp desperately for the oxygen that had been denied him.

“Now, I can’t kill you because we need you to help take down Amara. Or so Dad says. Honestly, I don’t see what any miserable human can do against Auntie Amara, but whatever. And I can’t leave any marks on you because then Dean would find out and that would just create a whole nasty mess. So you’re going to be a very good boy and _keep your mouth shut._ ” The typical cavalier indifference of Lucifer’s voice had shifted to a low snarl and Sam jumped, pressing himself as far into the wall as he could, attempting to widen the mere inch of space separating the two beings.

“Y-Yes. Yes,” Sam stammered breathlessly, too far gone in flashbacks and fear for Dean’s life to do anything but follow along. But the spoken assent had been verbalized in English and Lucifer’s fury flared brighter. Knives shredded his insides and he collapsed to the floor, writhing in agony as Lucifer stood over him, neutral mask betrayed by the red irises glowing in lustful glee. Sam’s throat worked convulsively, but he couldn’t scream, couldn’t beg, couldn’t call for help. Threads of scarlet torment shredded and twisted through his intestines, his bones, his muscles, his heart. Bloody, hot, blinding waves of suffering ripped through his soul. Seconds, minutes, hours passed in the blink of an eye and a mere moment later, the knives dissolved and disappeared, leaving the prone Winchester gasping raggedly, backing himself up against the counter and as far away from his tormenter as possible.

“It seems you’ve forgotten a few lessons since you returned topside, Sammy.” Lucifer’s voice was low, dangerous, a foreign and corrupted mimicry of Cas’ gravelly speech. “I trust you won’t forget anymore. You know what the consequences entail.”

“I’m sorry. Please, I’m sorry,” Sam pleaded, reverting back to the angelic language. Lucifer grasped his hair and pulled tightly, forcing his head back and exposing his neck.

“My, my, my. Still so broken after all these years?” A cold finger traced the lines of his throat and Sam flinched, struggling futilely. “Maybe I underestimated you down in the Cage. After all, you broke so easily, Sammy. I barely did any work.”

Fury and despair rose at the lies, drowning out the fear in a single spark of contempt. It had taken decades upon decades for Sam to break. Hundreds of failed escape attempts, thousands of spitfire defiances. He had ridden on the knowledge that he’d saved the world, stopped the Apocalypse, thrown the Devil back in his Cage until Lucifer had found his breaking point and torn him apart.

“I suppose now’s as good a time as any to ask if you’ve reconsidered my offer.”

Sam stared at him in disbelief, unable to come up with anything to say for a long moment. “You’ve got to be joking,” he said dumbly.

“Not at all. Castiel is a good vessel, but he’s nothing when compared to you. Alone, you’re just a human man with a little bit of extra power. But together … mmm. _Together_ , Sammy, I can’t even describe. But you remember, Sam. I know you do. The _power._ How _right_ it felt and I know you felt it too, even though you fought me tooth and nail. We could win this thing, Sammy. You and I. _Together._ ”

Lucifer’s voice, his eyes, his body language was so fervent, so firm in his belief that Sam almost believed him. But even with that belief, his resolve had never faltered, not once, and he knew with every cell of his being that he could never say that one word Lucifer so desperately wanted to hear and that defiance sparked courage.

“Never,” he spat. “It doesn’t matter how many times you ask, Lucifer. It doesn’t matter how many times you torture me. I will never say yes. Like I told you last time I saw you in the Cage: I’m not ready to be your bitch.”

“But Sammy,” Lucifer’s eyes glinted cruelly. “Don’t you know you already are?”

Pain exploded in Sam’s senses and his vision went, his hearing went and he couldn’t tell if he was able to scream, able to breathe, able to move. His throat was raw and torn and bloody and something cold burned away inside of him, igniting every fibre and nerve ending in a maelstrom of torment.

_You’re_ mine _!_

Lucifer’s voice, his _true_ voice imploded within Sam’s mind, ripping his sanity to shreds as finely as the rest of him and an imprint of his face burned behind clenched eyelids.

_You’ve_ always _been mine. You’ve known that since your were a child, Sam. You’ve known you didn’t belong, but you belong to_ me _! I_ broke _you in the Cage, I will break you again and you will_ learn your place _!_

Fire joined ice in an impossible dance, ripping through Sam and tearing him into pieces so small that he couldn’t find himself anymore. There were too many parts of him and he couldn’t fit the puzzle back into what he once was and if it was possible to die, he would have done so a thousand times over, but he knew Lucifer wouldn’t let him go, not yet. Not so swiftly

“Sam! Sammy! Goddammit, Sammy, fight your way out of this!”

Dean?

Suddenly every minute piece of himself slammed back into place so forcefully that his body arched and contorted. His throat reopened and he screamed in agony; a long, high cry that split the air around them. He could feel Dean’s arms wrapped around his chest, struggling to keep his little brother still as he convulsed on the kitchen floor, but the tension snapped and Sam collapsed in a heap of trembling limbs and short, gasping breaths. Dean’s hands were on his face, checking his pulse, his pupils, his temperature. He spoke feverishly and Sam could hear the terror in his voice, but he couldn’t comprehend the language, so riveted was he on Lucifer standing behind them with a finger held up to his grinning lips. Dean followed Sam’s wide, hyper-focused gaze, but the Devil was gone and Dean had no knowledge that he was ever there.

“Sammy? C’mon, man, say something! You with me?”

Sam’s hand grasped Dean’s upper arm, grip weak and spasmodic and his throat worked painfully, mouthing words that he could not yet give voice to.

“Easy, Sammy. Just take it easy. You were seizing, like when you started to remember Hell. But you’re okay, you’re good. You hear me? Just relax. We’ve got time, just relax.”

Sam could have laughed hysterically or sobbed in despair. If only it had been a seizure. He would have preferred epilepsy over the realization that escaping the Cage hadn’t meant escaping the Devil. Of course it didn’t. A part of him always knew that Lucifer would return for him and if Dean ever found out he was within the archangel’s grasp, his older brother would die. A tear leaked from the corner of his eye, tracing along his temple and into his hair as he tried to focus on Dean, the one person he would suffer for, the only one he could endure for.

It took a long time, but eventually Sam’s breathing relaxed and his mind calmed enough to speak coherant sentences. It had taken a few minutes to revert back to English and he had done so with such violent trepidation that he almost lost himself again. Dean had worked patiently with him through the reflexive Enochian, a hand on his little brother’s chest to guide him through the breathing exercises, but the emerald eyes were drowning in anxiety because fits this severe hadn’t happened since Sam had Death’s wall bricking up his mind and if he couldn’t cope with Lucifer’s presence, how were they ever supposed to beat the Darkness?

 

_____________________________________________________________

 

Sam stuck to his older brother like a burr and Dean was reminded of when they were kids and Sam had discovered that monsters were real. Kid-Sam hadn’t left Dean’s side for weeks afterwards, convinced that vampires or werewolves would come bursting through the doors and windows and the only thing keeping him safe while their dad was gone on a hunt was his perfect older brother. Dean, who could protect him from the nightmares in the dark. But within adulthood, monsters had been replaced by Satan and, while Dean could pretend, _would_ pretend for Sam’s sake, he couldn’t save Sam from the Devil if the Devil chose to take him. But every living creature between Heaven and Hell knew Dean would die trying.

Lucifer wouldn’t touch Sam if he wasn’t alone. Sam knew enough to realize that. So he made sure there was always someone else in the room with him, whether that be Chuck or Dean. He could feel Lucifer’s icy gaze on his back, the way his eyes followed his every movement. Sometimes Dean caught him at it and barked angrily, ordering him to look somewhere else or get the hell out of the room.

His dreams were filled with nightmarish torment. But where his usual flashbacks to the Cage would have been a merciful reprieve, he could feel the archangel’s presence weaving through his unconscious mind like a silky ribbon made of icy thorns, could hear him whisper cruel promises and remembrances as he inflicted genres of pain Sam had not yet dreamed of. Sam fought desperately to stay awake, but between the Ativan, the stress, the alcohol and Lucifer’s influence, he couldn’t stay awake more than one night at a time. While his days were spent in relative safety, the night was the Devil’s playground and he staked his claim upon Sam’s soul in blood and bone.


	12. Let's Pretend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The latter part of this chapter and the first part of the next chapter (or however long) is scripted straight from the episodes. I colored it up, so I hope it's not boring and repetitive since you've all seen the show.
> 
> Chapter title taken from Audiomachine's piece: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gssIiKk3JDQ

“Take it, Sam. You know you want it. Can’t you smell it?” Lucifer blew the vial’s aroma toward’s Sam’s face, smirking as his victim caught the aroma and his pupils dilated ever so slightly.

“Go to hell,” Sam snarled quietly before a moan escaped his pressed lips as Lucifer pushed him back further. He was pinned to a wall in the gym, Lucifer’s arm pressed uncomfortably against his throat and there was a hook in the wall piercing into his back, curving up inside his flesh. It reminded him a little too much of the meathooks the archangel had loved to string him from.

“Been there, done that. You remember, Sammy. Not as much fun as it is here topside, but I have you to thank for both occasions, so take it! I’m trying to give you a gift here.” He blew at the vial again, but Sam spat in his face. Lucifer took a step back, wiping himself off with exaggerated patience, but Sam could see the sparks of anger and smiled grimly in satisfaction. Give him agony, give him psychological torment. Anything was better than this. He barely muted the cry of pain as Lucifer’s power slammed him back against the wall. The hook was small, but had him fully caught under the skin now, tugging sharply at a wall of muscle and it hurt like a bitch.

“Well, as you humans say, you can lead a horse to water,” Lucifer said slowly. “But I’ll be damned if I can’t make you drink.”

Sam paled, but he couldn’t get away unless he wanted to rip his back open. Before he could take that option, Lucifer had him by the jaws, forcing his mouth open and spilling the crimson liquid into his unwilling mouth. Sam sputtered and tried to spit it out, but his mouth was covered and his nose was pinched shut. He struggled, eyes wild with fear, but the archangel’s celestial strength was more than any mortal man could overcome.

“You’re turning blue, bunk-buddy. I’ll let you breathe once you swallow like a good boy.”

Sam was choking and, despite his fervent efforts, the demon blood ran down his throat. Lucifer let him go, backing into the center of the gym and watching Sam carefully, who had collapsed against the wall, sucking in as much oxygen as his lungs would hold.

And, quite suddenly, then he stilled.

Lids covered fully dilated hazel eyes as the heady effects of the blood sang through his mind. He let out a soft moan, his surroundings blurring into nothingness as the ambrosia worked it’s way through his system. He could almost see threads of black racing through his veins, awakening that latent power he commanded. He took a deep breath, his nerves singing in triumph. It had been _so long_. Too long, and he rejoiced. Every cell in his body was alight and aware and buzzing with ability and power. _His_ power. It was his to command.

“See? That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

Sadistic glee ran through Sam and his eyes opened, fixating on Lucifer with a furious glare. The hook broke off the wall and exited Sam’s body, seemingly of its own accord. He straightened slowly, a hunter’s grace stalking his prey. Throwing his arm out toward’s the archangel, energy burst from his fingertips and pinned the archangel to the wall. Fingers closed into a fist and Lucifer grunted in surprise, feeling his throat clenched by the invisible force his vessel commanded. But Sam had only been given a little, and he was only human. The angel pried himself from the wall and took a step towards Sam, who focused his efforts harder, feeling a stream of blood drip from his nose.

“Now, now. There’s no need to get all high and mighty. You’re not strong enough for that, but look!” He pulled out another slim vial from Cas’ trench coat pocket. “I’ve got more for you. Do you want it?’

And Sam did. God, how much he wanted it. He could feel the blood within him straining, calling for more, pulling him towards that little glass vial. But the thought of willingly accepting anything from Lucifer made him sick to his stomach and he stopped after the first step. The conflict caused him physical pain. If it had been anyone else, anything else, he would have slaughtered them and happily taken the vial from their dead hands. Lucifer was right, however; he wasn’t strong enough for that. He wanted that blood, needed it deep down in his bones, but he had his pride. He wouldn’t accept anything from the Devil. There were plenty of demons to go around outside of the Bunker.

“Son, what are you doing?”

Sam whirled around at Chuck’s exasperated voice, saw God leaning against the doorframe, regarding his eldest with open chagrin.

Lucifer’s change in composure threw Sam, that mercurial shift from taunting smiles to murderous rage in the blink of an eye. Fear split through his rabid hunger, striking the man to his core and he fell to his knees, gasping raggedly.

“What’s it to you?” Lucifer snarled quietly. “Leave me to my playthings.”

That was all Sam needed to bolt, too focused on escape to hear Chuck’s reply.

Dean! He had to get to Dean. He sprinted through the halls, throwing himself through Dean’s bedroom door, rummaging through his belongings feverishly.

Dean jumped out of bed in alarm. “Sam, you ok? Sam? Dude, you’re bleeding, what’s going on?” Sam threw something his way and he caught it easily, heart dropping as he looked from the handcuffs to Sam throwing himself on the bed, wrists held out desperately.

“No time,” he gasped. “Dean please, this won’t wait. It’s taking all I have not to run and I can’t fight it much longer!”

“Son of a bitch,” Dean swore quietly, clapping the handcuffs to his brother’s wrists and threading them through the frame of his bed. He knelt beside Sam, lifting his lids to check the dilated pupils, felt along his neck for the racing, erratic pulse. He swore again, grabbing a rag and wiping the blood from Sam’s face.

“My back,” Sam said raggedly, leaning forward as much as his bonds would allow him to. Dean noted the blood staining through the flannel and lifted Sam’s shirt to check the puncture wound.

“Jesus, Sam. What the hell happened?” But Sam was shaking his head as a keening moan was torn from him, muscles straining painfully taut as a wave of hunger ripped through his mind. “Alright, Sammy. Just take it easy. I need to stitch your back up, you want some whiskey?”

“That won’t be necessary.”

The two brother jolted violently, heads whirling to see Chuck standing in the doorway.

“The hell happened to my brother?” Dean demanded angrily.

“Lucifer,” Sam muttered past another wave of black desire.

“I’m sorry, what? I told him to stay away from you! I will put that son of a bitch in the ground!”

A soft, but undeniable force pulsed, demanding Dean’s attention and Chuck was holding his hands up consolingly. “I’ve dealt with Lucifer. He won’t touch Sam again.”

“I don’t care! I warned him the first goddamn day he was here!”

Sam winced at Dean’s choice of profanities before pressing his face into his brother’s shoulder, choking on the shameful sounds tearing at his throat. His body was trembling at the effort and he pulled forcibly, desperately at the handcuffs. Dean grabbed him firmly, threading soothing fingers through his little brother’s hair and muttering softly to him. He was tense with anger, but Sammy came first. Lucifer could wait and Dean would make him _suffer._

A sharp snap made them flinch and a blinding white light enveloped their senses. Dean felt the tension evaporate from Sam’s body, the trembling gone. His own anger had diminished to irritation and he knew that if Chuck wasn’t moderating his emotions, he would have gone after Lucifer there and then. Instead, he checked over Sam, looking at pupils, taking his pulse. “You good, dude?”

“Yeah,” Sam breathed, words heavy with relief. “Yeah, I’m good.” He looked past Dean’s shoulder, glancing at Chuck. “Thank you,” he said softly.

“No thanks necessary. I’m sorry about my son. You’re going to have to talk to him, which is why I dampened your anger, Dean. And Sam’s fear. Normally I don’t mess with that stuff, but Lucifer’s being a tad unreasonable and, well … he’s just not listening to reason.”

“We’ll talk to him,” Sam said uneasily. Dean raised an eyebrow at his brother but didn’t contradict him. The sooner they dealt with Amara, the sooner they could slam Satan back in his Cage. He uncuffed Sam, noting that Chuck had taken care of his injuries as well as his addiction. At least he was finally being useful. He turned, ignoring God and held a hand out to Sam, helping him up.

“Come on, let’s go grab some beer first,” he muttered. Muted emotions were all well and good, but it would be alcohol that would truly get them through this, literally, ungodly situation.

 

_____________________________________________________________

 

Metal sounded loudly through the Bunker as the door clanged shut behind the Winchester brothers. They looked down to see Chuck standing in front of Lucifer, who was pointedly ignoring his father.

_Well this looks like it’s going swimmingly,_ Dean thought with a silent groan.

“Hey! How’s it going in here?” Sam asked as they walked down the stairs, groceries in hand. They received no answer, Chuck trying to talk some sense into his son.

“Listen, I know I’ve been gone for a little while. I missed a few … million birthdays - “

“Yeah, and the second your apes send a distress flare? Boom! Daddy’s home!” Lucifer was sulking, voice filled with venom and sarcasm.

“No, that’s not what happened - “

“Hey, these apes saved your ass,” Dean said angrily. Sam looked over at him in warning as Lucifer raised his fingers, snapping sharply. They flinched violently, stilling for a moment to realize nothing had happened. Everyone looked quizzically at Chuck, who shrugged.

“He can’t hurt you.”

“Oh, so you’re controlling me now!”

“No, it’s just a safe-guard,” Chuck tried to explain and Dean, for once, thanked God for the protection he granted.

Lucifer was glaring at his father, sharp blue eyes accusatory and furious.

“Uh … hey, guys?” Sam broke the silence nervously. “Uh, Chuck? Um … Lucifer? Dean? Think we can try and focus here? Y’know, end of the world. Common enemy, all that.”

Lucifer slammed the book shut and stood abruptly, anger barely masked by the nonchalant gaze he shot Chuck. “The enemy of my enemy is my friend,” he said sullenly, walking to stand in front of his father. “Team Amara. Go Amara.”

Chuck looked at his son with resignation. “You don’t mean that.”

Silence reigned for a few seconds. “You’re really not going to say it,” Lucifer said slowly, nonchalance falling to reveal the bitter emotions written on his features.

Sam frowned in confusion. “He’s not going to say what?”

“Screw you,” Lucifer whispered, ignoring Sam’s query. The murderous gaze latched onto Sam and Dean as he repeated his curse in a low snarl. “Screw all of you.”

He stalked off, passing between Sam and Dean. Despite the dam holding back most of Sam’s fear, he flinched away, eyes lowering skittishly to the floor. Anything to keep from worsening the situation. Lucifer may not be able to exercise his celestial prowess, but he still had a physical vessel that could inflict any measure of pain.

“Kids, huh?” Chuck joked.

Dean sighed, throwing his hands up in the air. “You two are going to sit down and talk,” he stated, voice laced with irritation. “C’mon, Sam. Apparently we have to fix the Creator’s familial squabblings.”

They walked begrudgingly through the halls, following the sound of trashy rock until it lead them to Sam’s room. “You’ve got to be joking,” he said before banging on the door. “Lucifer!” he shouted, trying to be heard above the too-loud music blasting through the walls. “You know, at some point in time you’re going to have to come out and talk to … God.” There was no answer and he groaned, leaning back against the wall.

“This is like the worst episode of Full House ever,” Dean grumbled. Sam huffed out a small laugh. Then the music lowered in volume and the brothers raised their brows at each other before leaning in to listen.

“If dad has something to say to me, I’ll hear it from him!” Lucifer demanded, voice moody. It reminded Sam of teenage Dean angst and he rolled his eyes. “Until then, I’ll be in my room.”

“It’s not your room,” Dean said, indignant as the volume raised again.

“It’s my room,” responded Sam, angry. He banged on the door again.

“Whatever,” Dean muttered, walking away to find Chuck. Sam hurried to follow and they found him in the kitchen. The sight made Sam pause for a moment. He was wearing Dean’s cooking apron, making … pancakes? He frowned at the absurd notion, but followed Dean to the table, taking a seat.

“Talk to him,” Sam pleaded.

“Won’t do any good,” sighed Chuck, pouring some batter into the pan.

“Why not?” Sam asked in exasperation.

“Because I can’t give him what he wants.”

“And what’s that?” Dean asked.

“What everyone wants,” Chuck said resignedly. “My sister, my children. You humans. An apology. A big, wet ‘I’m sorry’.”

“Well give it to him!” Dean demanded. “It’s not like he’s asking for a weapon or Hell or Heaven. He’s asking for words!”

Chuck sighed again, turning around to present a plate of pancakes to Dean. They smelled good, admittedly. Not as good as Dean’s, but better than a diner’s. “Can’t say I’m sorry if I’m not. What he wants an apology for, I did it for humanity. For the world.” Another plate was set in front of Sam. “Look, Lucifer wants what everybody wants, okay? Amara gone. Let’s just give him a little time to cool off.”

“Okay, well I don’t know if you’ve noticed,” Dean said carefully. “But a little time’s not something that we have. The end is friggin’ nigh.”

Chuck was still for a moment before nodding slowly and the two Winchesters breathed a sigh of relief. Finally, they were getting somewhere.


	13. Dark and Light

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first half of this is taken from S11 E22 "We Happy Few". My apologies for that, some people might find it a bit boring. But it helped the plot along and I tried to expand on personal thoughts and intents behind the script, so I hope it's not too dry!
> 
> Chapter title taken from Audiomachine's piece: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rG-LelxbmvY

It took some convincing and an uncomfortable amount of pleading, but eventually they got Lucifer to come sit down and try to hash it out with Chuck. Dean had set up a couple of chairs and Sam was awkwardly trying to explain how to start, how to hold a human conversation to work through issues. If it hadn’t been literal God and the literal Devil and God’s literal sister threatening to end all of creation, the situation might have been deemed funny.

“One of you is gonna have to, uh … go first. You know what? Lucifer, you … you agreed to have a sit-down if God would show, so … “ He gestured awkwardly towards Chuck, words failing him.

“And Chuck, you did say you’d talk, so … “ Dean attempted to pick up where Sam left off, but the circumstances he found himself were just so bizarre that he had a hard time knowing what to say. Would human methods of working through issues work for the ultimate deity and his fallen son?

Lucifer was smiling tightly, eyes fixated on his father. “Him first,” he said, pointing firmly at the being in front of him. “I’m the one who’s owed an explanation.”

Chuck sighed, looking away, then to the Winchesters.

“Oh. Okay, let’s try ‘I feel’ statements.” Dean clapped his hands together nervously.

Sam looked over at him, forehead creased in a questioning look, but the question was clear: _Seriously, Dean?_

“Doctor Phil,” he whispered to his brother, before waving them back to the stairs so their guests, if they could be called such, could start their promised discussion.

Chuck started, trying to find something adequate to say. “I am … sorry, that you feel that I betrayed you. That I acted without cause.” Lucifer was already shaking his head in contempt, but he continued on. “I’m sorry that you can’t see you gave me no choice.” He sent a satisfied smile towards the Winchesters, who shook their heads uncertainly. “I’m good.”

“You heard that, right?” Lucifer called over.

“We all know that you are … God. Um. But maybe could you be a little less … Lordly?” Sam suggested hesitantly. He tried not to think about the fact he was mediating a conversation with the deity he had grown up praying to.

“But I am … “ Chuck said slowly, confused. “I … I’m the Lord.”

“Wow!” Lucifer exclaimed quietly. “There he goes.”

“I did what I had to do.” A touch of irritation and indignation colored the Creator’s voice. “To create the world, I had to lock Amara away. And when the Mark corrupted you and I saw that you posed a threat to humankind, I did the same with you.”

“No,” Lucifer retorted, shaking his head. “You betrayed me. You gave me the Mark to lock her away and when it changed me, when it did what the Mark _inevitably_ does … you threw me away.”

“No, son. You always cast a jaundiced glance at humans. The Mark didn’t change you. It just made you more of what you already were.”

“What I was was your son. Your _child_!”

“Why should I put you first above all others?” Chuck demanded.

“Do you have any idea,” Lucifer laughed quietly, looking over at the two men on the stairs. “What it’s like to argue with your father when your father is God? Everything is a tautology with you. Everything is ‘Because I told you so.’ Everything’s ‘It had to be done!’.”

“Pretty sure that’s all fathers,” Dean muttered. Sam cleared his throat, throwing a warning glance at his brother.

“Okay,” Lucifer said slowly, shifting upright in his chair. “Fine. Big picture as God: you did what you had to do. But little picture? You sucked at being a dad!”

“Okay, maybe I didn’t handle everything perfectly. But tell me, could I have kept humankind safe with you on the board? I know about your little bid to replace me with the angels.”

Lucifer was silent, glaring at him with wide, angry eyes.

“Okay, new God,” Chuck retorted. “What would you have done about you?”

“That is not the point!” Lucifer shouted.

“I … I can’t believe I’m actually about to say this,” Sam said slowly, rubbing his hands together anxiously. “But Lucifer is right.” The archangel raised an eyebrow at him, but he continued on, carefully ignoring those ice-bright eyes. “All he wants is an apology and you’re too concerned about being right to give him one. But apologies aren’t always about being right. Sometimes they’re just about apologizing.”

“Yeah!” Dean added. “And the great thing about apologies is you don’t have to mean them. You know? I lie and tell Sam I’m sorry all the time.”

Sam’s head swung around, shooting a cold glare. _You’re not helping_ , his hard eyes shouted.

“Sorry,” Dean said sheepishly, then brightened. “See?”

“Alright, enough from the peanut gallery,” Chuck snapped, and suddenly they were at the top of the staircase with a chess set displayed in front of them.

“What the - ?” Dean said, shaking slightly from the sudden transportation.

“Dean, what the hell?” Sam hissed. “Why would you say something like that?”

“Dude, are you serious?” Dean threw his hands in the air. “What kind of situation is this? This is crazy! We’ve officially entered Crazy Town, Sam!”

Sam rubbed his hands over his eyes in agitation, just shaking his head. “Yeah, I know. I know. This is a whole new flavor of absurd.”

“You took Satan’s friggin’ side!”

“Don’t remind me,” Sam moaned quietly. “I just can’t believe he was right about something.”

“First time for everything,” Dean muttered.

"First and only time," Sam retorted. Further conversation was stalled as Lucifer and Chuck walked into sight. Sam and Dean sprang out of their chairs.

“Hey!” Sam called.

“So … are we good?” Dean asked cautiously.

Lucifer looked between his father and the Winchesters, his typical casual blasé painted across his features, and the two nodded at each other.

“Okay! Great!” Dean said, words dripping with relief.

“So … what now?” Sam asked.

“We trap Amara,” God said simply. “Put her back in the box.”

And that was when real-time sped back up to one hundred.

 

_____________________________________________________________

 

The fact that Amara had to live for the sake of reality threw Dean for a loop. Sam accepted the explanation easily enough and the concept of eternal balance made sense to Dean, but he didn’t like the idea that there would ever be a chance of stumbling across the Darkness again. Sam understood this and his wordless presence brought sanity and calm to Dean when memories of the chaotic passion that Amara ignited within his soul made his resolutions waver. If Sam was to live, then Amara had to be boxed up again.

It had come as no surprise when Lucifer admitted they couldn’t succeed with only he and his father. They had discovered the falsehood of his claims when he’d failed to destroy the Darkness alone, even with a Hand of God fueling his power. In the absence of other archangels, they had needed to bring other substitutes into play.

Rowena had been an obvious choice. She had allied herself with the Darkness for a time, and knew her better than most. To top that, she was the most powerful witch alive and the power she wielded could, perhaps, mimic that of a high-ranking angel’s. The fiery Scotswoman also had connections to other witches. Powerful witches, considering the esteemed company she preferred to keep. Convincing Rowena would be Sam’s responsibility.

Crowley had also been at the top of their list. He had raised Amara for several months, had coached and conditioned her as she’d grown up. As King of Hell, he had become a powerful demon in command of hordes. Together with Rowena and her witches, that would, hopefully, substitute for a couple of archangels. Bringing Crowley on board would be up to Dean.

The plan to recruit the angels and Heaven’s power was for Lucifer to visit upstairs and let Cas speak to his celestial brothers and sisters. Although falling out of favor with the angels, Castiel had commanded armies for eons. Despite the past few years and his own Fall, he still had many allies and possessed a way of speaking that could rally the hearts and courage of reluctant warriors to a cause. That would, hopefully, mimic the power of a fourth archangel.

Dean had cornered Lucifer in the hallway the next day, a time before the archangel was scheduled to visit Heaven. “I want to talk to Cas,” he demanded. His hard eyes left no room for argument, even from Satan. “And I want him for twenty-four hours.”

“Yeah, sorry to rain on your parade and all, but that’s definitely not happening.”

Sam had rounded the corner, walking to stand behind Dean and watched the situation play out carefully.

“No, screw that,” Dean said angrily. “You owe us, after what we pulled to get your dad to hash things out with you. We have unfinished business with Cas that we need to talk it out ourselves and we may not make it out of this so this is our last chance.”

Icy eyes narrowed in suspicion, looking between the two brothers. “I happen to like this vessel,” he mused slowly. “And I don’t trust the two of you. What’s to say you’re not going to try to convince dear Cassie to evict me, huh?”

“Well then let’s make a deal,” Sam said quietly. “We won’t mention it if you let us go our separate ways after this is all over.”

The archangel sent a long glance at the taller man, eyes flashing red and Sam flinched, squeezing his eyes shut.

“Enough,” Dean snapped. “Do we have a deal or not?”

Lucifer rolled his eyes and sighed theatrically, but when the irises came back down and focused on Dean, they were the sky-soft blue of Castiel.

“Cas … ?“ Dean whispered, the name barely audible.

The seraph gave a faint smile, a shyness to his features. “Hello, Dean.”

Dean threw his arms around the angel, holding him tightly and when he felt Cas’ arms wrap around and grip him just as close, he nearly lost his composure. He couldn’t tell if he wanted to punch Cas or kiss him or just hold him tight, but a myriad of emotions were fluttering through his soul. Despite the chaos, one stood out in stark recognition: relief.

The angel released Dean reluctantly and stood back. “Dean, I’m afraid we don’t have much time. I must speak with the angels. You know this is a matter of great urgency.”

“Screw the angels for a minute, Cas. You owe us one, you can give us a day.”

Cas shifted slightly, debating the issue with himself. It wasn’t that Cas wanted to leave the Winchesters behind. He would have gladly cast Lucifer out to spend the rest of his days with those two he called family. But if he could sacrifice a part of himself and save Sam and Dean, that was of utmost importance. He supposed he was more Winchester than he tended to think.

But after months housing Lucifer, encased in the bitter cold while The Deceiver commanded his vessel, the thought of being in control and feeling safe with the two most important people in his life was too tempting to pass up and he nodded. He felt Dean grip him close for another long moment before clapping his back, too emotional to say a word.

As he followed Dean down the hallway, he didn’t miss the way Sam flinched sharply and kept his distance as Cas passed the man. He turned to address him, but Sam kept his eyes to the floor, avoiding eye contact. The angel felt his heart drop into his stomach. It was such an odd feeling and one he didn’t think he’d ever get used to. It didn’t help that the sensation was often accompanied by feelings of fear or guilt, such as in this moment, making it an inherently negative feeling and he marveled at the fact that such a high-ranking seraph had developed such human emotions.

They camped out in Cas’ old room. An angel had no need for a bedroom, of course, as Cas never slept. But Dean had argued the point passionately, insisting it was important for him to have his own space, even if he didn’t use the bed. The room was around the corner from Dean’s, at the opposite end of the hall from Sam’s and Cas had grown to enjoy the small space reserved only for himself. Dean had grabbed some beers and settled on the bed, leaning against the headboard with Cas sitting towards the end. Sam had taken up the desk-chair and pressed the back against the opposite wall, watching Cas with a side-long gaze. Cas felt the weight of those hazel eyes and the pain from Dean’s emerald stare and sighed.

“Sam. Dean. We have much to talk about.”


	14. Pulled Apart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Totally lied. The Talk™ won't be until the next chapter. There just ended up being too much for a singular chapter to hold.
> 
> Chapter title taken from Audiomachine's piece: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LHMZkyWaZH0

“I am sorry for what I had to do,” Castiel said, voice brimming with regret. “But you understand that it was necessary.”

“Honestly? No, Cas. Not really,” Dean admitted. “Just … Lucifer? Seriously, dude?”

The angel gestured helplessly, an utterly human motion. “I believed him when he said he could defeat the Darkness. In my father’s supposed absence with no other leads, it made the most sense.”

“I can see where you’re coming from, Cas. Honestly, I do. But you have to know how it looks, man. Sam said he tried to get you to eject Lucifer after he tried to kill him. And you said no? And then again at the collector’s and then with the demon blood, and I’m just … I don’t know what to say here, man.”

Cas frowned, crystalline eyes flooding with confusion. “Demon blood?”

“Yeah, dude. This was just a few days ago.”

“I am not aware of any such event,” Cas said slowly.

“The hell you mean you don’t know? Lucifer’s riding your meat suit, how could you not know? You were aware of everything else.”

“I took control of Lucifer when he attempted to kill Sam. I was on the verge of doing so again when you blasted us to Egypt. We had a very … firm discussion after that. I told him I would eject him, regardless of the consequences, if he attempted to harm either of you again.”

“A lot of good that did.” Sam’s voice, though deceivingly quiet, filled the room. Dean shot a look at his brother and could practically see the venom dripping from his soul.

“Sam, what has been going on? I have been watching events unfold carefully since the last time we crossed paths and I’m unaware of anything involving demon blood.”

Sam scoffed, eyes still trained to the floor. “Sure, Cas. I’m sure you’ve missed the past few weeks of torture too.”

“I’m sorry, what?” Dean spit out. Sam shot a look sideways, watching Dean out of the corner of his eyes, but stayed silent. “No. No, Sam. Out with it. The hell you mean weeks?”

“He told me he’d kill you if I said anything,” Sam whispered, shame extinguishing his anger.

Dean swore violently, bolting upright to pace the room. “Son of a bitch! You’ve got some explaining to do,” he snapped at Cas, who was watching Sam with an expression of unmasked horror.

“Sam, I … “ His voice faltered and he tried again after a few seconds. “Everything I have seen, everything I have watched so carefully. You were safe. I never saw any hint of harm or pain. I caught passing thoughts of intent, but, to my knowledge, they were never pursued.” Sam laughed, but the sound spoke only of pain and his knuckles were white as they gripped the arms of his chair. “Sam please,” Cas pleaded fervently. “Please, you have to know … Lucifer must have edited what I was experiencing.”

“No,” Sam bit out. “Lucifer told me you were privy to everything. That you were set up with a television that you watched everything on. He told me he would never lie to me. And honestly? I believe that, because the truth hurts so much more than the lies he could tell!” He was shouting now, hoarsely, on his feet with his eyes fixed furiously on the seraph.

“He wasn’t lying, Sam,” Cas said carefully. “But he wasn’t telling you the whole truth, either. Lucifer is the Great Deceiver. I spent most of my time watching television programs, yes. But I was not aware of the situation as he showed me. Lucifer tricked me and I am ashamed of what he did while I housed him. But if I had known you were being tortured, that he was trying to kill you, don’t you know I would have fought to keep you safe?”

Sam’s jaw worked painfully, tears trailing down to drop to the floor. He was tense, his eyes screwed shut. “I just can’t trust that, Cas. Not after this, after everything. I can’t even trust that you’re actually you. I spent weeks thinking Lucifer was you. He played you so convincingly. And then suddenly you weren’t you anymore and your arm was plunged into my chest and your fingers were … they were … “ He had dropped to his knees, gasping erratically as he tried to work through his post-traumatic panic. Dean threw himself in front of Sam, hands clasped to his brother’s shuddering shoulders and Cas watched, Grace filled with immense pain and anguish at what he had failed to see.

The fluttering sound of wings filled the room, but Castiel’s exit was missed by the two brothers, too involved with each other to notice anything else. Cas emerged on top of the bunker, folding Lucifer’s pearl-grey wings tightly against his back. The powerful feelings of rage and pain and betrayal in Sam’s hazel eyes haunted him and he felt, for the first time, truly tainted by his brother’s presence. Had he been human, he might have screamed his pain into the skies, tears may have tracked rivulets down his cheeks to drip on the Bunker’s roof. But Castiel, Angel of the Lord, was not human. As it was, he merely stared bleakly into the hazy blue above him and his emotions, stronger and more potent than he could ever remember them being, threatened to tear him apart from the inside.

He searched for Lucifer in his mind, but the archangel was evasive, knowing he had been caught out. Both brothers knew it was too late for Cas to cast out the other angel. Their father had made it clear that Lucifer was a key component in the fight against the Darkness now. They well and truly _needed_ Lucifer and not even the Winchesters could deny it. That fact didn’t make Cas feel any better about his choice. He’d always made decisions with the best of intentions, but he always seemed to screw it up. He didn’t know if this was his attempt at trying to be human or if there was merely something fundamentally wrong with his programming, but every time he tried to fix something, he ended up making it astronomically worse. He knew the Winchesters well enough to know that they would work together with he and Lucifer in their endeavor, that they wouldn’t let bad blood stop them from saving the world, but after that? After Cas rejected Lucifer? He’d have to leave. Alone again, cast out from heaven and disowned by those he considered brothers.

Pain rippled through him and he eyed his scorched, broken wings hidden beneath the feathers of Lucifer’s. What was he at this point? He was too human to be considered an angel and, after all he had done to Heaven, he would never be allowed back. But he had never been truly human either. He’d never belonged to this race, barring Sam and Dean and he knew there would be no haven to return to after Amara was locked away again. He would be well and truly homeless, accepted by no one and loathed by most. He could not imagine a worse hell.

 

_____________________________________________________________

 

“Sammy? Sammy, you hearing me?”

A nod, wordless and tense and bursting with fear, but at least he was coherant. Dean let out the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. He ripped the blanket off of Cas’ bed and wrapped it around his little brother, combating the intense cold he knew Sam must be reliving. Large hands clutched it close, wrapping it as tightly as he could.

“Open your eyes, man. C’mon, what you can see with your own two eyes is better than reliving whatever’s going on in your grapefruit.”

A hard shudder wracked Sam’s frame, but he forced his eyes open, keeping them locked on the floor.

“Look at me, Sam. Focus on me. Stone number one.”

This was harder. The textured floor was safe. Their crouched legs encased in denim were safe, but what if the emerald of his older brother’s eyes flared into flame-bright red? He’d lose his sanity. But in all the psychological abuse he’d taken in the Cage, all the hallucinations and mental realities that Lucifer had thrown him into, the Devil had never gotten Dean right, not once. So he met his brother’s eyes and their irises conversed with each other, conveying thoughts and ideas that their voices couldn’t find words for.

Dean pleaded with him, begged him to hold on, to rebuild. Dean was stone number one, the foundation of every shred of sanity Sam had managed to cling to throughout their screwed up lives. Dean implored him to remember that and build his defenses back up. Everything else could wait. Every apocalyptic event, every pain and ounce of suffering could wait. Lives could wait until Sam was okay again.

Sam shouted wordlessly, holding on to the safety of Dean’s presence with every last thread of strength and determination he possessed. Guilt and the primal need for forgiveness were so loud in those hazel eyes, trying to make Dean understand why he had suffered in Lucifer’s grasp alone, why he had endured so long in silence. If Dean was gone, Sam had nothing and he would endure the weight of the universe if it meant the difference between Dean’s life and death.

“It wasn’t your fault, Sammy,” Dean murmured, holding his brother’s quivering shoulders firmly. “You didn’t do anything wrong. I wish you’d come to me, but I understand why you didn’t, okay? But Sammy … you shouldn’t have tried to endure this, not again.”

“I couldn’t let him take you,” Sam bit out. The words were harsh and hoarse, but he couldn’t raise his voice above a tense whisper.

“He wouldn’t have. Sam, he couldn’t have taken me. And if he had? Chuck would have brought me right back with a roll of the eyes and the exasperated sigh of a parent with a petulant child,” Dean joked weakly. His little brother shuddered again, eyes clenching back shut and Dean shook his head firmly. He grasped Sam’s hand and pressed into the white palm scar _hard._ Sam gasped in shock, hazel eyes flying back to meet Dean’s. “Focus, Sam. You’re staying right here, got it?” A short, barely perceptible nod and he held Dean’s gaze. “Good man. Now breathe.”

A hand splayed out on Sam’s chest and Dean’s murmured voice counted up and down breaths, guiding his brother in the exercise. When he was able to breathe evenly on his own, Dean resumed the conversation. “Lucifer can’t take me, Sam. It’s just not possible, not permanently. He tries anything here, you’ve got capital-G God on your side and you know as well as I do that he’ll spring me right back up. He’s done the same for others, remember? And after Amara’s locked back up again, Cas is going to expel that son of a bitch and we’re going to gank his ass. You hear me, Sam? We’re not sending him back to the Cage, we’re going to find a way to finish him. Once and for all.”

Sam didn’t believe Dean. Or at least, he believed that Dean was convinced of what he was saying, but Sam knew there would be no way to fight off the Devil for good. Angel blades didn’t work on archangels and, even if they found something in the lore that would allow them to brush over that detail, he spared no hope on the idea that Lucifer would ever be gone from his life. But Dean’s gaze was so fervent, so firm in his need for Sam to believe him that Sam nodded mutely. He knew Dean could see right through him, but it was important for both of them that he pretend there was a way out of this mess.

He sagged against the wall as his mind calmed as much as it was possible. It seemed that God’s wall on their emotions had had an expiration date, or at least He had chosen not to leave it up permanently. Dean came to sit next to him and, in a rare show of gratitude and love, Sam leaned over, resting his head tiredly on Dean’s shoulder. The older man carded gentle fingers through his little brother’s too-long hair.

“I’m scared, Dean,” Sam said quietly.

“I know, Sam. I am too,” Dean admitted.

Sam shouldn’t have been surprised, but he was. There was no logical reason for Dean not to be scared, but it always surprised him when his older brother admitted to any form of fear or stress. He had always been the one to place a mask over his emotions, to emit auras of strength and reassurance. It was how Sam had learned to do the same.

“You ready to hash things out with Cas now?” Dean felt Sam tense against him, but the slow nod came a few seconds later. Dean let out a long sigh, pushing down the apprehension. “Everything’s going to be okay, Sammy,” he said softly, unsure if the words were spoken aloud or merely thoughts in his mind. “I promise.”


	15. Forgive Us Our Trespasses

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man, this is turning out so much longer than I expected, but at least I know where I want to end now lmao. Actually quite happy with how this chapter turned out, even if it's longer than normal. Thank you so much for staying with this so long!
> 
> Chapter title taken from Audiomachine's piece: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RN7OYhkFcyE

“You’re on, champ.”

“Sorry?” Sam asked, confused.

“Get Cas back here, you’ve got the most beef with him.”

“Dean, he never answers my prayers. That’s just you, remember?”

“Yeah, well I _am_ the prettier one,” Dean gloated.

“It’s just because he’s in love with you,” Sam muttered under his breath. It earned him a smack and he protested weakly, trying to keep the twitching corners of his mouth from exploding into a smirk. Dean grumbled to himself about not being able to help it if he was too attractive to resist and Sam snickered quietly, but the point was made. Dean sighed.

“Oh Castiel, Angel of Chuck, we pray that thou aren’t sulking too much for a family intervention. Now get your moody ass down here so we can talk.”

Silence stretched through the room.

Dean groaned, rubbing his face with his hands. “C’mon, Cas. We’ll kick your ass either way, but wouldn’t you rather it be on good terms?”

“Oh yeah, good one Dean.That’ll convince him,” Sam quipped, but the sound of flight undulated gently and Dean winked smugly at his brother, who merely rolled his eyes.

Cas was standing in the far corner, meekness, guilt and contrition coloring his features as though it was his natural complexion. The aura of depression and loss rolled off the angel so thickly that Dean felt his resolve waver. “Aw, c’mon Cas,” he said awkwardly. “You’re making it awfully hard to be angry with you.”

The seraph looked past the elder Winchester shyly, glancing at Sam but not allowing his gaze to fully alight upon the man. “I would have come if you’d prayed, Sam,” he said softly.

Sam looked at him, eyes widened in surprise. “That’s … that’s nice, Cas. Thanks.” Dean was right - even with the history of the past few months, Cas was obviously punishing himself far more than Sam could ever hope to.

“I understand your disappointment, Dean,” Cas said, voice as soft as the sound of his wings. “And I understand your rage and betrayal, Sam. Please … I cannot fully express the depth of my regret to either of you. Sam, if nothing else, please know I was not privy to your suffering. I would never have allowed it to happen.”

Sam was at a loss for words. “Cas, I know that, man. It’s just - “

“Please,” Cas bit out, as though forcing the words from his throat was causing him physical pain. “Just let me finish.” Sam fell silent and Cas waited a moment longer before continuing. “Once this is over, once this is _all_ over, I will leave you in peace. I will not force my presence upon you any longer. It’s obvious that all I do is cause hardship and suffering.”

“Okay, that’s enough,” Dean spoke up firmly. “Christ, man. Neither of us said any of that. We don’t want you to leave!”

Cas’ brow furrowed in confusion. “Why would you want me to stay?”

“Why would we … ?” Words escaped Dean and he whirled around at Sam’s low laughter, glaring at his brother, still sat against the wall with his eyes trained to the fidgeting hands in his lap.

“Welcome to the Winchester family,” Sam said dryly, and Dean relaxed in understanding. Cas, evidently, held the same self-loathing for himself as they both did. He just didn’t have the decades of practice burying those feelings under layers upon layers of mental walls and sarcasm.

Cas was still locked in a state of confusion, but Dean waved the comment away. “Never mind. Look, Cas, the point is that we don’t want you to leave. Are we pissed? Hell yes. I’m angrier than I think I’ve ever been at you, man. There’s no way around that. You screwed up and you screwed up big time. It’s going to take awhile to get past this one. _But_ ,” he continued as Cas withdrew further upon himself in shame. “You’re also family, Cas. Look, dude, Sam and I had a long talk about this a few days after I got back from _The Bluefin._ The two of us have made some huge mistakes in our time. We’re both responsible for the almost-apocalypse - “

“That was not your fault,” Cas interrupted firmly.

“I let a homicidal angel possess Sam,” Dean continued, just as firmly. “Sam didn’t come rescue us from Purgatory. We’ve all made monumental mistakes, Cas. All of us. None of us are blameless. But you know why we’re still here? Because we’re family. _You’re_ family. And family don’t leave anyone behind, understand? We’re not leaving you. We don’t _want_ you to leave, man! Don’t you get that? We want to work through this and put it all behind us!”

“But what this has done to Sam,” Cas protested. “What this has put him through - “

“Cas,” Sam interrupted, voice quiet as he watched his fingers fiddle aimlessly. “I don’t believe for a second that Lucifer’s insistence was the only reason you said yes. You had another reason, didn’t you.”

The angel fell silent, watching Sam warily. It had been more of a statement than a question. Dean looked down at Sam quizzically and their eyes met for a brief moment before Sam’s eyes dropped back to his hands, constant fidgeting the only sign of his distress.

“Lucifer could do whatever he wanted to me and it would never make me say yes,” he began, strain beginning to creep into his voice. “He could torture me for centuries, lock me back up in the Cage. It doesn’t matter. But there’s one thing, just one, that would make me desperate enough to let him in.”

Dean’s face fell. “Aw, Sammy.”

“He couldn’t do anything to me, down in Hell. Once persuasion failed, he took to pain.” His voice grew monotone, the remembered threats sending thrills of icy terror down his spine.

_I could inflict pain like you can’t even imagine. I could inflict such … delicious, perfect pain._

“And when that failed, he … “

_Alright, Sam. I’m gonna make this real easy for you. You say the magic word, or your brother dies. And we both know you won’t let that happen._

“Yeah, Sammy,” Dean said quietly. “I remember.”

“I think I would have done it, Dean. To save you. I think I would have said yes. Cas and I, we didn’t know there was a failsafe.” Sam’s haunted eyes finally looked up to meet Cas’. “It took me a long time to realize it. I was so angry with you for so long. I think a part of me didn’t want to understand. But you took on Lucifer to save us. To spare me that decision. And Cas, if you think I could ever hate you for that, you’re wrong.”

Cas’ eyes fell, jaw working painfully, silently as Sam continued. “I’m still angry. Hell, I’m furious. And it’s going to take a long time for me to trust you again, but that doesn’t mean I don’t _want_ to fix things. So please. Let us have that chance.”

Strong arms gripped Cas tight in a desperate embrace, Dean wordlessly expressing his eternal gratitude as he shut his eyes tight against Cas’ shoulder. The angel stood stiffly for a moment, before relaxing slowly, wrapping his arms around Dean to return the embrace.

“Thank you for watching over him. For watching over both of us.” The words were barely audible and heard only by Castiel. He didn’t respond, but he didn’t need to. He felt unimaginable relief at the knowledge that they still _wanted_ him around, even if he couldn’t understand how or why. Any doubt was buried and he chose to accept the moment as it was and bathe in the warmth of Dean’s embrace and Sam’s forgiveness.

They stood entwined around each other for a long moment before Dean pulled away, clapping the angel on the back gruffly and clearing his throat. “Go help Sammy up,” he said, meeting his little brother’s gaze. Sam nodded stiffly, imperceptibly and, when Cas hesitantly offered his hand, he gripped it tight, rising to his feet as Cas pulled him up. He stood tensely, eyes closed. The contact with Lucifer’s vessel, the source of so much torment, made him skittish and he flinched every few seconds, breaths short and tight in stress. When Cas realized the distress he was causing, he pulled back, frowning when Sam tightened his grip.

“Don’t,” Sam hissed sharply. “Just … just give me a minute.”

Understanding what Sam was trying to attempt, Cas stilled and projected a gentle wave of calm and tranquility to combat Sam’s fear and anxiety. After a few minutes, the flinches subsided and his stance relaxed faintly. Dean watched the two, head cocked in thought.

“Sam, you know the thing I do after your nightmares?”

“Yeah. Yeah, that’s what I was thinking too,” Sam responded, determination fire-bright in his eyes, shadowing the trepidation he felt at the exercise.

“Cas, you’ve seen me pull Sam out of his nightmares, right?”

Cas glanced at him, words slow. “I have observed, yes. Not often. I do not wish to intrude upon such things.”

Dean waved his apologetic explanation away. “That’s not the point. Truth is, Sam has to be comfortable with your presence again and the best way to work on that is what I do to get Sam used to physical contact after he wakes up bad.”

The angel looked more reluctant at the thought than Sam. “Dean, I don’t think that’s necessarily a good idea, not after everything that’s happened.”

“If Sam’s willing to try, and it looks like he is, I think it’s a good idea,” Dean said firmly. “I’ll be here to guide you and keep an eye on Sam. Satan promised us twenty-four hours. I say we use it.”

“Sam, are you sure?” The crystalline blue of Cas’ eyes were worried, but on behalf of Sam and it made the man smile gently.

“Yeah, Cas. I’m sure.”

Dean moved in-between them, batting the angel away. “Here, I’ll show you how, then I’ll guide you along. Sam, shirt off.”

Flannel pooled to the floor as Sam removed his jacket and button-up, throwing the garments carelessly to the floor. The cool air kissed his bare skin, making him shiver and Dean noted the way his chest sped up as his breath began to reflect his anxiety.

“Breathe, Sammy,” Dean reminded him. “You’re good. Everything’s good, it’s just me.” He turned to make sure Cas was watching intently before threading his fingers through Sam’s hair. The actions were slow, methodical as he worked his way along his scalp, down his neck and across his shoulders, then down his arms. Long fingers traced down his throat and splayed out on his brother’s chest before tracing down his sternum and across his abdomen. He noticed the way Sam flinched, the inherent action almost imperceptible were it not for the way Sam shut his eyes or the way his breathing hitched slightly.

“Eyes open, little brother,” he murmured. Sam took a deep, shaking breath and followed the instructions. He focused on the warmth of Dean’s skin, the grounding of his voice as his older brother walked behind him. He felt the warmth spread along the nape of his neck and resisted the urge to cringe away. A small sound of stress escaped his throat and Dean’s hands hovered there carefully until Sam relaxed again. Fingers trailed across his shoulder blades, down his ribs and spine and across his back before he felt Dean step away.

“You got it?” the older man asked, aware of the critical observation that Cas had shown, watching closely and memorizing the pattern.

“Yes, I believe so.” Cas said, before turning to Sam. “Are you sure about this?” His voice was full of concern, the care and fervent attention to Sam’s needs swimming in his features.

Sam shifted slightly, feeling fear well up and threaten to spill over. His eyes darted between Dean’s gaze and that of the angel’s before the determination sparked once more and he nodded tightly. “I’m sure.” He glanced away awkwardly at the pride in his brother’s eyes, unused to seeing the sentiment presented so starkly. He nodded more firmly to Cas, shifting for a moment longer before stilling, body tense and wary.

Cas looked over at Dean for reassurance and, perhaps, permission, before Dean nodded and Cas stepped carefully in front of the youngest Winchester. His hands were gentle, fluid, long fingers running slowly through the silk strands of Sam’s hair. The man grit his teeth, uncomfortable and agitated, but he tolerated the contact, eyes glassed over as he stared over Cas’ shoulder. Fingers trailed down his throat and Sam swallowed convulsively, breath hitched as he remembered every time those hands had closed around his neck, squeezing, bruising, denying him precious oxygen.

The angel looked over to Dean, eyes worried at Sam’s reaction, but Dean focused on his brother. “Easy, Sammy. You’re okay, he’s not going to hurt you. Just breathe. I’m right here.”

Sam stayed stock-still and Cas, remembering how Dean had handled such reactions, kept his fingers hovering feather-soft at Sam’s throat until he felt the man calm. His hands moved down across Sam’s shoulders, eyes and fingers investigating scars curiously as he went. He understood the depth of intimacy this exercise gave him, how much Sam was trusting him in this endeavor. It humbled him deeply and he was careful to be as attentive as possible, to do whatever he could to ease his friend’s suffering and fear.

Fingers traced their way carefully along Sam’s chest, stilling at every flinch and uncomfortable shift in weight. Dean murmured quietly to Sam every few seconds, keeping his brother grounded while Cas worked his way across his skin, tracing ropy veins and sculpted muscle. But when his hands reached just below his sternum, Sam gasped raggedly, throwing himself violently against the wall. “No!” he shouted, hoarse and desperate. “No! Please. _Please!”_

Dean leapt in-between the two, nudging Cas gently out of the way. “Focus, Sam. Eyes open, focus on me.” He slapped the side of Sam’s face lightly to emphasize his words and hazel met green, the former washed pale with nightmarish memories of arctic grips bruising his soul. Dean placed his hand gently on Sam’s skin, replacing where Cas’ hand had triggered the episode and felt his brother’s body twitch fitfully, wincing at the moan of fear that escaped Sam. “Easy, brother,” Dean murmured gently. “I know this is a bad spot for you. Just focus on me. Stone number one. I won’t lead you wrong, you know that.”

Sam did, knew that Dean would never screw with him over this, so he tried to recall his breathing exercises and was rewarded with Dean’s grin. “There you go. Good man, Sammy! Nice and easy. Now, I’m going to bring Cas back over and we’re going to work through this together, okay? You still want this?”

Thick waves of fear threatened to choke him, to drown him in blackness, but Sam swallowed them down and nodded tersely after a few long moments and Dean clapped his shoulder in encouragement. “Come here, Cas,” he called and the angel walked forward reluctantly. Dean grabbed his hand and placed it next to his own on Sam’s abdomen. The younger man gasped again, attempting to flatten himself as much as possible against the wall, eyes flickering wildly across the room in his panic.

_I will touch your soul, just because you asked so nicely. I’ll use your spell to blast through the warding. I’ll retrieve Dean and the Hand of God. And when Dean comes back and he finds this place decorated with your guts, I will tell him the truth, Sam. I’ll just say ‘Dean, he knew the risks. He wouldn’t take no for an answer!”_

Fingers snapped sharply in front of his face and he cried out sharply in fear, expecting the next round of torture that always came after the sound. But instead of all-encompassing pain, he heard Dean’s firm voice calling out to him. “Stay here, Sam. I’m not letting you go anywhere, but you’ve got to fight through this. Stay right here, stay with me. You’ve got this.”

“Dean!” he bit out raggedly.

“I’m right here, Sammy. It’s just me and Cas. Real Cas, not Lucifer. Do you understand that?”

Sam tried, but it was so hard to tell the difference between the two angels these days. He’d been fooled once, he couldn’t take that risk again!

“Sam!” Dean snapped. “Focus. Focus on what you can _feel._ Are you in pain?”

Was he? It was difficult to tell. Was he truly in pain or was it just the anticipation of suffering? Or was it just memories and his imagination running wild? He tried to focus, to think through the question. Dean would expect an answer and he knew he had to give one. He ran through his mental checklist, but it was difficult with so much adrenaline running through his system.

“Sam.” Dean’s firm voice brought him back to himself again. “Are you in pain?”

“N-no,” Sam stammered. “I don’t … I don’t think so.”

“You don’t think? Or you know?”

Sam focused again, mind clearing slightly. “I know. There’s no physical pain.”

“Good. Good, Sammy. Now focus on Cas’ hand. How does it _feel_?”

The question confused Sam until he realized that he wasn’t cold. There was no chill to Cas’ fingertips like there had always been to Lucifer’s. Even using Jimmy Novak’s meat suit, those fingers had been frostbite-freezing when Lucifer was at the wheel. His eyes widened, meeting Dean’s even gaze.

“I uh … I - “ He blinked rapidly, aware of how hard his body was shaking, of the choked sounds that escaped his throat despite his best efforts. He pressed his hands over those on his stomach, needing the reassurance of Dean’s touch and the conviction that had come with this newfound revelation. His fingers inspected Cas’ hand fervently, covering every inch, but there was no sign of even the faintest chill. He sagged against the wall, a tear leaking from his eye. “He’s not cold,” he whispered hoarsely. “It’s not Lucifer”.

“It’s not Lucifer,” Dean repeated firmly. “You’ve got him, Sammy. You know the tricks, you can tell the difference now. This? This is Cas.”

Sam let out a single sob before choking down his relief, the emotion flooding his soul like a balm. He kept his hands on Cas’ for several long minutes, drinking in the warmth and familiarity of his celestial brother. When he’d mastered his emotions, he stood back up, taking several deep breaths and nodded firmly. “Keep going.”


	16. Through the Darkness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prior to my previous belief, this is going to be so much longer than even my last update thought. To the point where it's going to extend into a second work. I had a scene showing Cas' resolution and acceptance that he belongs and that he's family, but it works better after Mary shows up, so there'll be a second work coming soon. Between then and now, I'm having a bit of difficulty pacing to the end of this work and how to work through the coming episodes so chapters may be more spaced out than I typically get them written. So thanks for your patience!
> 
> Also over 1,000 views! WHAT! Thank you guys so much!! I never thought I'd have a story be so well received <3 <3 
> 
> Chapter title taken from Audiomachine's piece: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Trn1cSsY2t8

It took a solid hour for Sam to feel comfortable enough in Cas’ presence to sit next to him with minimal stress. Cas had repeated the exercise several times, working away trigger points by sheer exposure. Dean had mediated carefully, intervening when Sam needed a moment, and the youngest Winchester had pushed forward with devout determination. In the end, they’d all sat in a haphazard circle next to Cas’ bed with easy smiles, quiet laughter and adopted kinship. The relief permeated the air like bread to a starving man. There was still dread masked under the solace; the knowledge that this would not last, but it was tempered by the hope that came with resolve.

This black necessity was temporary. Castiel would come back to them and their small family would be made whole.

Small touches were frequently given and received. They spoke of fondness, of bonds forged in blood and anguish, but also from joy and friendship. They reassured, offered hope, apologies, promises that everything would be alright.

Sam had been checking his watch religiously, knowing that Lucifer’s step away was only temporary. As the hours counted down and Cas’ presence lost time, he wanted to prepare himself for the change he might not see. So when Cas reached out and frigid fingers gripped his shoulder, he leapt out of Lucifer’s grasp, mask slammed into place and pointed at the door.

“Out,” he barked tersely. Dean frowned at him, then at the lazy smile on Cas’ face and understood.

“What, no thanks for time with your pet?” The archangel drawled, face contorted in a mocking attempt at hurt.

“We don’t thank for favors owed,” Dean stated firmly. “Now get out.” Lucifer rolled his eyes dramatically and walked the body of Jimmy Novak out of the room, slamming the door petulantly behind him. Dean glanced over at Sam. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Sam said quietly. “I saw it coming. I’m good.”

“You should try and sleep tonight.”

“I know. I’ve got some things I need to take care of first. You take the bed tonight, I might be late in.”

“What if he … y’know. You shouldn’t be by yourself, Sam.” Disquiet leaked from Dean’s every pore, but Sam sent him a tight smile.

“I don’t think Cas is going to be fooled anymore. I’d be very surprised if Lucifer even tried to pull something.”

“Yeah, maybe.” Dean’s expression remained doubtful, worried, but he let the matter drop. “Don’t be too late, okay? We’ve got a big fight coming our way, you need to rest up.”

“I know, Dean.” A half-smile made its way towards Sam’s older brother. “I promise I’ll be in. I just need to tie up a few personal ends before I try and sleep.”

Glancing at the clock next to Cas’ bed, the white lights showed the time to be just past midnight. “Well, I’ll be in my room. I’m taking the floor, though. By Chuck, you will take the damn bed tonight. I see the way you’ve been stretching, Sam. You’d better be grateful I’m giving up my memory foam for you. Hopefully it still remembers me after your lanky ass is done with it.”

Sam laughed, shaking his head. “You’re an idiot. I’ll take you up on that in an hour or two.”

Dean waved him away, walking out the door to his own bedroom and the laughter dropped from his eyes, watching his brother’s back with desolation. He walked away, down the Bunker’s various hallways, in search of God. The irony of that thought was not lost on him; everyone searched for God at some point in their lives. Sam was probably the only one to be able to do so and literally find him.

Find him he did, in the library, strumming a guitar seemingly conjured from nothing. Sam stood leaning against the wall, listening to the chords quietly as Chuck hummed in time to the harmony. He was good; the strings purred vibrantly and the notes bled into each other with skillful integration. It sounded almost familiar, but Sam couldn’t place where he’d heard it before.

“Hello, Sam,” Chuck called, and the notes shifted fluidly to a soft rendition of Hey, Jude. A small smile crept onto Sam’s face as he recalled the occasional instances Dean had sung it to him as a child, when he was sick or injured. His brother had told him that their mother had sang The Beatles classic to them as her preferred lullaby. Sam couldn’t remember her voice, but he remembered those lyrics brought to life by his older brother in the dark.

He walked over to lean on the table a few feet away from Chuck, gathering his thoughts and composure. The deity kept quiet, the soft humming and gentle guitar strings the only noise in the air. Chuck seemed to realize something was on his mind. After all, Sam supposed, he was God and God was omniscient. All the same, he appreciated the patience and equanimity.

After a time, though, Chuck spoke up. “I was wondering when one of you would come to me about this. I’m surprised it wasn’t Dean.” The melodies continued unhurriedly, a soothing balm to Sam’s nerves.

“Dean avoids thinking about it. He wouldn’t even entertain the idea of the First Blade being a Hand of God. I don’t think the idea’s even crossed his mind. He shoves all thought of Cain’s Mark to the back of his memories and locks it up in a titanium safe.”

“But not you.”

A shake of his head sent Sam’s hair into his face and he brushed it back with a nervous hand. “Someone has to bear it. It can’t be Lucifer and Dean’s been haunted enough by it.”

“You realize that this won’t make him feel better. He’ll insist it has to be him.”

“That’s why we won’t tell him.” Sam’s voice was firm, resolute. “He can’t know until he absolutely has to.”

“You Winchesters,” Chuck sighed, fingers switching to another melody. “Always so willing to sacrifice yourselves. You have to understand, Sam. I can’t save you from this. The Mark has to be locked to an individual. I can’t alter it or dull its effects.”

“I understand. I can’t say it doesn’t scare me to Hell, because I saw what it did to Dean.” Sam’s gaze dropped to the floor, a hand rubbing his eyes tiredly. “I’m terrified. But it’s the only solution to this problem. Amara can’t be locked away unless someone carries the key and I’m the only logical option.”

The strumming stopped, notes fading into the air. Sam looked up as Chuck put his guitar down, leaning it carefully against the chair he’d been occupying and stood, coming to lean on the table next to the other man. “You were always my favorites, you and Dean,” he said bluntly. Sam looked at him in surprise and Chuck smiled towards him. “I know I’m not supposed to have favorites. I mean, part of Lucifer’s problem was that he was my favorite, but sometimes you just can’t help yourself. I’m proud of the men you’ve become, Sam. And I don’t preen in what molded you into such fine men, but you’re both made of sterner stuff than most humans.”

Sam dropped his eyes, at a loss. His own father had told Dean to kill him, but here was God saying he was _proud_ of who he’d become. Despite his shortcomings, despite his demon taint. God was _proud._

Chuck smiled, hints of amusement sparkling in his river-blue irises before they grew more serious. “Go sleep, Sam. You’re going to need all your strength.”

Sam said nothing, only nodded and walked out of the library. He needed a drink and he was sure Dean was still awake. It was too early for either of them to sleep just yet. He walked into the kitchen and opened the liquor cupboard, selecting a bottle of scotch they usually used for special occasions. He supposed this qualified.

“Where’s the party?” Dean asked, looking up and to the bottle of alcohol in Sam’s hand.

“Don’t you think the end of the world counts as a reason for good liquor?” Sam asked with a smirk.

“With as many we’ve had? Not really. Kinda par for the course, don’t you think?”

Sam huffed a small laughed and shrugged. “Yeah, you’re probably right. Still, I want a drink and I want something with more quality than ten bucks worth of Jack, so you want some or not?”

“You have to ask?” Dean asked, sitting up in bed and pulling off his headphones.

Sam grinned and poured a glass for them both, taking a seat on the bed across from his brother, legs crossed. He took a long, slow drink and both brothers sighed happily.

“I tell you what,” Dean said after another sip. “The Scots sure know how to make their alcohol. This is some good stuff.”

Sam hummed in assent, swirling the amber liquid in his glass before pouring it down his throat. They sat in amiable silence, each lost in their own thoughts and their own drinks. They didn’t have much, just a couple glasses each. Scotch was something to savor and make last. They didn’t down it like they did with whiskey or Bobby’s Rot Gut. They ended up on their backs, looking up at the ceiling after a time. The clock read just past two in the morning, but neither man was keeping track of the time.

“We’re good, right Sammy?”

Sam turned over on his side, frowning at his brother. “Yeah, Dean. Of course. Why do you ask?”

“I dunno. I’ve just got this sinking feeling in my gut, like this isn’t gonna work. I’m sure as hell not going to be much help.”

“We have these thoughts every time the world threatens to end, Dean. The plan won’t work. This apocalypse is going to be the last one and we can’t stop it. We’re not going to make it. But we always do, Dean. One way or the other, even if sometimes one of us is gone for awhile.”

“Unless we stop coming back,” Dean admitted quietly.

Sam’s stomach tightened, but he knew what Dean meant. Their resurrections were miraculous and never guaranteed. Losing Dean never got easier, that pain and all-consuming loss never dulled because what if, this time, he wasn’t coming back? He knew Dean felt the same way every time Sam lost a life too. “I doubt God would just keep us dead after helping Him lock His sister back up,” he said. “Beside, He told me we’re His favorites.”

It was Dean’s turn to flip to his side, eyes widened in surprise. “He told you that? When?”

Sam’s lips twitched upwards faintly. “Couple of hours ago. I walked in on Him strumming a guitar, we had a conversation.”

“Where’d He get the guitar?”

“Probably created it from thin air.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “This is never _not_ going to be weird.”

Sam smiled slightly. “You’re telling me. It’s one thing to battle gods, but to house the literal creator of everything is … well … “ He struggled to find a word, but shrugged and gave up. He knew Dean understood what he meant.

“You really think this is going to work?” Dean asked quietly, toying with a loose thread on his comforter.

“Yeah, I do,” Sam replied, voice just as soft. “Amara is powerful, but she’s just one being. We’ve got capitol-G God. We’ve got Lucifer and Cas. We’ve got the world’s most powerful witch and the King of Hell. And we’ve got us.”

“How many world saves will this make?” Dean asked, snorting.

“I don’t know,” Sam replied with a slight grin. “I’ve honestly lost count.”

Dean shook his head and flopped onto his back, muttering about how ridiculous the situation was. They lapsed back into silence again. Sam felt immense guilt at keeping his plan from Dean. It was big, it was important, but he knew Dean would fight him tooth and nail about this. He knew Dean would lock him down, keep him out of the fight if he had to. So when Dean asked if he was good, he just nodded, eyes fixed to the ceiling.

“Yeah, Dean. I’m good.”


	17. Where Once There Were Stars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whatever. I hate filler chapters. I never like them. Two or three more chapters and this fic will be over, to be continued in a new one. This is very dialogue heavy, taken from Eps. 22 and 23 of S11.
> 
> Chapter title taken from Audiomachine's piece: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7XDuwb-WRJw

Sam and Dean shifted uncomfortably to the side of their motley group. The Winchesters, God, Lucifer, Crowley, Rowena. What could possibly go wrong with everyone under one roof?

“Oh, God,” Rowena was giggling like a fifteen-year-old schoolgirl.

“Oh, God,” Crowley groaned quietly, looking as though he might vomit.

“Alright, no flirting. And no fighting,” Dean called out mulishly.

“And no deals,” Sam added. “No talks about who’s owed what if we survive this.”

“Nobody likes each other,” Dean pointed out. “It doesn’t matter.”

“We only have the fight ahead,” Sam said quietly.

It had been two weeks of intense planning and negotiating. It had been a fight to get Rowena and Crowley on board, but their senses of self-preservation were too high and, in the end, they’d known this was their only play. That didn’t mean having everything together was pleasant. Every creature in the room, aside from God, was on edge and exchanging snarky comments, sarcasm dripping from voices as though they were swimming in it.

Even with Chuck laying out the plan, that didn’t stop. Each representative dropping another as the most disposable and Dean sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. They were both the youngest and weakest players on the board, why did they have to keep the peace between the most powerful beings in the universe? It was absurd. The Winchesters had more maturity than anyone here and that fact was even more ludicrous.

“Enough,” Sam called out tersely. God continued, but Dean cut him off.

“What about Cas?” he asked, eyes hard as he stared at Lucifer.

“Oh don’t worry,” the archangel drawled in mock concern. “Your pet’s safety is my _highest_ concern.” He paused at the glares from the Winchesters before rolling his eyes and turning away. “Trust me, he’s on board.”

“Once she’s been weakened,” God continued carefully, looking over at Sam. “I will take the Mark back from Amara and use it to seal her away. You ready?”

“Yeah,” Sam said, carefully avoiding his brother’s gaze as Dean turned to look between him and Chuck.

“Wait. What?”

There was a moment of uncomfortable silence. “God and I talked about this,” Sam said softly, for Dean’s ears only. He could feel Dean’s horrified look raking over him, but refused to meet his eyes. “Someone needs to bear the Mark.”

“Well that should be me,” Dean protested. “I’ve had it before, I’m damaged goods!”

“Exactly,” Chuck stepped in as Sam’s eyes trailed to the floor unhappily. “You’ve already been tainted. I can’t transfer it to you. Sam volunteered.”

A pull at his coat led Sam away from the group and trailing after Dean. “First Cas is making kamikaze side-plays, and now you? You couldn’t have talked to me?” Dean’s voice was hard and sharp, demanding an explanation. Fury sparked in his bright green eyes and Sam looked at him, guilty but firm.

“We did talk.”

“And what happens when the Mark turns you psycho, hmm? Then what?”

“Then you lock me up where I can’t hurt anyone and you throw away the key!”

“Sam, no - “

“Dean!” Sam interrupted impatiently. “You told me that you couldn’t beat Amara. That it would have to be me. Well? This is it. Me.” Behind the fury, Sam could see the broken sorrow and the fear of loss and guilt pulled painfully at his soul, but this was the only play they had and Dean knew it. Despite that, his older brother wasn’t backing down. “We’ve talked about this,” Sam told him earnestly. “It’s time to do the smart thing!”

“So what am I supposed to do?” Dean asked, voice cracking slightly. “Sit back and watch?”

“No!” Sam protested. “We’re both in this fight, you’re leading this army!”

“What, you mean babysitting the bad guys?” he quipped, voice scathing.

Sam rolled his eyes and huffed a laugh, acknowledging Dean’s point. But his eyes were pleading with his brother, willing him to go along with the only way they could possibly win this thing. It was Dean’s turn to avoid his brother’s gaze, unhappiness and fear making his body painfully taut.

“Okay, Sam,” he said quietly. “Okay. God’s plan.” Their eyes finally met and that guilt pulled tighter in Sam’s belly. There was so much pain in that swimming emerald view and that was on him. He nodded back, trying to convey how sorry he was that it had to be this way. Sometimes there was only one play left and someone had to lose. It was just the Winchester luck.

They rejoined the group and Rowena walked out of the building. After that it was just … waiting. That was the difficult part. It was silent, tense. They were all left around with their own dark musings. Dean stuck to Sam’s side like velcro as though he might disappear at any moment and Sam brushed Dean’s shoulder with his every now and again just to remind him that he was there, that he wasn’t going anywhere yet.

Dean glanced up at Chuck and he blinked in surprise at the expression of pain and guilt on the Creator’s features. But then, He was planning on locking His sister up, the only family He had. Dean’s face fell at how much he could relate to Chuck’s situation. It was one he’d found himself in more than once and that feeling of betrayal never got any easier. He’d felt first ten years ago, when his father’s dying words had told him that if he couldn’t save Sam, he’d have to kill him. He felt it now, knowing that, someday, his brother would be gone and he’d have to put him in some dark, underground hole and lock him up for eternity. The realization was like a gut punch and his breathing hitched, earning a concerned, quizzical gaze from the man in question. But he ignored Sam’s silent query and looked down at the ground.

Yeah, he could relate to God.

A massive sound like a thunderclap echoed around them and the ground shook. Grit and dust fell from the ceiling as Crowley and the Winchesters exchanged nervous glances, but Chuck and Lucifer only looked above them as though communicating silent commands to the angels readying their blow to smite the Darkness. And then Crowley walked out to deliver the final blow and they waited in tense silence until Amara threw open the door and limped inside.

Sam felt the change in Dean’s composure instantly, putting out a hand to physically stop him from walking towards Amara. He looked carefully at the Darkness; the physical draw She had on his brother worried him and, even as broken as Her body appeared, Her eyes glared at them fiercely as She advanced. This was far from over, but there was hope. Against all odds, their plan seemed to be working.

“Hello brother,” She said darkly. “You cheated. Again.” She ignored Sam and Dean, hobbling painfully towards Chuck, who took a step back. “But - “

Michael’s spear pierced through her stomach and she gasped. Sam heard a sound of pain escape from Dean’s throat as they both flinched in surprise. Lucifer glared at his aunt blackly, going in for another strike, but Chuck stopped him hurriedly. Sam, although watching the scene unfold carefully, was too concerned with his brother’s agitated distress at Amara’s situation to know what words they exchanged. He was ready to stop Dean, to tie him up if he had to. He didn’t know how powerful the bond between him and God’s sister was, but he couldn’t take the chance that Dean might leap to Her aid.

“Well. You’ve won again.” The admission kicked Sam back to the situation at hand, but the words didn’t bring him comfort. They brought anxiety. It couldn’t be this easy. It was _never_ this easy. “Finish it.” His hand gripped Dean’s arm in warning, body tense and battle-ready. “Kill me.”

The mark began to burn away and, as it disappeared from her flesh, Sam’s hand dropped from Dean’s arm to grip his own.

It _burned._ It burned like Hellfire.

He felt Dean grab his shoulders tightly as Sam doubled over, cries of pain escaping gritted teeth as the Mark began to burn its way onto his forearm. The lines of the rune formed red, angry and flame-bright over the ropy veins, marring the flesh with the fires of damnation.

“Not again!” Amara shrieked. “Not. _Ever._ Again!”

And everything fell apart.

Lucifer made a desperate grab, launching the spear in a killing blow, but Amara threw out a hand  and he flew back, body cracking against the pillar as he lost consciousness.

“Cas!” Dean shouted before leaping at the Darkness, but She flung him back too. He stayed down, staring in horror as She held Chuck in a death grip. The Mark disappeared from Sam’s forearm to rebuild upon Her chest and they knew they’d failed. It was over. Black tendrils of smoke rose towards Chuck and Dean cried out desperately. “Amara, no!” He saw Her glance at him, eyes softening in sorrow and grief before they hardened again and She turned back to her brother. As the tendrils pierced God and He fell limply to the floor, they knew the end was coming.

“Amara, what have you done?” Dean asked in horror, voice breaking.

“He’s dead,” Sam said, hushed. “God’s dead.”

“No,” Amara interrupted brittlely. “He’s dying. My brother will dim and fade away into nothing. But not until He sees what comes next. Not until He watches everything He created, everything He loves, turn to _ash.”_

There was no pleasure in Her eyes. No pride of victory. Even as Dean looked up at Her in dread, all he saw was pain.

“Welcome to the End.”

And then she was gone.

Everything was quiet. They weren’t sure how long they just sat there, heavy with the knowledge that this was the Apocalypse they’d failed to stop. Then Sam’s hand was grasping Dean’s arm and pulling him up and they went to check on the other two. Dean clapped a hand to Lucifer’s shoulder, trying to get him to come round. He crouched carefully, wishing he could leave the archangel there to rot, but Cas still needed to be saved. He would save Cas before the world came to an end. He could at least do that.

Lucifer groaned, looking up at Dean, brows furrowed in disorientation. “Dean?”

Hard suspicion melted into astonishment as Dean realized the ice in those blue eyes had melted. “Cas? Hey! Is that you?”

Cas looked around, dazed. “Lucifer is gone. Amara ripped him from my body.”

Dean fell forward slightly in relief, grasping Cas’ shoulder more firmly. “To where?”

“I don’t know,” Cas admitted, but that didn’t matter. He pulled the seraph up carefully and they walked to Sam and Chuck and overheard the Lord admit he was a bug smashed against a windshield. The relief he felt at Cas’ return sank at the remembrance of what was coming. There was no solution to this. The End truly was friggin’ nigh.

A clang sounded behind them and Dean whipped around, gun at the ready, but it was only Rowena.

“So that was a gun in your pocket,” she quipped half-heartedly. Dean rolled his eyes and replaced the weapon in the back of his waistband.

“Well, that was a complete and utter dog’s breakfast, wasn’t it.”

Crowley’s Limey accent triggered a second roll of the eyes. They were all going to die, but at least they’d all be there to witness it. Awesome.

“I didn’t know dogs had breakfast,” Cas remarked idly. The unorthodox comment made Sam blink in confusion, looking to Dean.

“Cas is back,” he informed him and Sam looked behind him in relief, sending the angel a small, joyless smile.

“Just curious, but has anyone bothered to look outside?” Rowena asked, attempting an idle aura, but the fear leaking into her voice betrayed her. Everyone exchanged dark glances before following the witch outside, Chuck leaning heavily against Sam. They frowned at the black scorch mark on the ground, but Rowena touched Dean’s shoulder gently, her slim fingers quivering, and he followed her gaze up to the red sky.

The sun.

The sun was -

“Dying.” Cas said flatly.

“Why would Amara do that?” Sam asked in horror.

“The sun is the source of all life on Earth,” Cas explained. “Without it, everything just … wastes away.”

So that was how it would end. Cold, afraid and in the dark. Wilting away until there was nothing left.

A snap made Sam flinch, but then they were back in the Bunker, courtesy of God, and he was helping Chuck into a chair before He fainted to the floor.

“What do we do now?” Cas demanded. Dean merely walked out of the room, leaving Sam and Cas to follow him, exchanging troubled looks. They found him in the kitchen, downing a bottle of beer and Sam glared at him.

“Really?” he demanded testily.

“Really,” Dean replied, tone unapologetic and defeated. “We hit Amara with _everything_ we got and she walked it off. So - “

“So?” Sam interrupted. “So it’s Last Call?”

“That’s right,” Dean said idly, downing another gulp of beer. Sam’s furious glare twinged a slight vein of guilt, but he shoved it away. “Look, man. If you got something for me to punch, shoot or kill, let me know and I’ll do it. I’ll do it ’til I die. But how are we supposed to fix the frickin’ sun?”

Sam’s face fell slightly, though he tried to keep up the mask of anger. His jaw worked painfully, trying to draw a solution out of thin air, but even Cas was silent and all Dean’s expression said was _‘That’s what I thought.”_


	18. Legacy of the Lost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, a chapter I could do more than just parrot lines with. Thank the gods.
> 
> Two more chapters and this work will be over to be loosely continued in a new story that I have, shamefully, used to procrastinate with this one. 
> 
> Chapter title taken from Audiomachine's work: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PxFfmNdYchU

Sam had sequestered himself to Dean’s room when Cas and Dean had left. He couldn’t understand the defeatism permeating the Bunker’s circulated air. Particularly with Rowena and Crowley. He’d never known anyone else with such unhealthy levels of self-preservation, but they were just rolling over to die and it wasn’t like them. Even Dean, the one person who could force Sam up on his feet again when the world had beaten him too far into the ground, was giving up.

No.

Sam hurled his glass across the room, but even the typically soothing shatter did nothing to ease his nerves. There had to be something. _Anything._

_But what if there’s not?_ He shoved that thought down to the bottom of his mind, but that only led to Lucifer leaning casually against the wall.

“Maybe you should listen to yourself for once, Bunk Buddy. What did Dean say? ‘The End is friggin’ nigh’? Now it’s not ‘nigh’ so much as inevitable. Maybe if you - “

Sam’s face tightened unhappily and he pressed down hard into his palm scar. Lucifer flickered briefly before disappearing from his sight. He looked for something else to throw, but his eyes alighted on a collection of photos Dean typically kept locked in a small chest under his bed. The chest was out and open, the photos from their old house strewn haphazardly in a small pile. He sat down, legs crossed in a loose posture, and began sorting through them. Grief warred with failure warred with despair.

A sort of family portrait caught his eye, the four of them smiling into the camera, all grouped together. Dean couldn’t have been older than four and you could just see infant-Sam’s bubbling grin from under a swathe of blanket. A small smile snuck its way onto his face, but it was tainted with sorrow.

“I’m sorry, mom,” he said quietly, kissing the tips of his first two fingers to press them gently over his mother’s visage. “I guess we just couldn’t stop this one. I’ll try. I swear I will. I’m not going down without a fight, even if I have to kidnap Dean to drag him along.” He gave a small, half-hearted laugh. “I’ll come see you one more time before this goes down. Just in case. Tell dad I miss him.”

Sam placed the photos gently back in the box and scooted them under Dean’s bed. A tear dripped off of his jaw and he wiped it away impatiently, forcing himself to his feet. He strode into the main hall to find everyone … drinking. Not necessarily alcohol, but something for everyone. Just drinking. He stared at them, mouth agape, trying for find some form of communication.

Crowley interrupted his sudden bout of aphonia. “Samantha,” he called. The demon didn’t bother to look around, just held a bottle of gin in the air.

“W-what are we doing?” Sam stammered, trying to force the words out of his shocked mind.

Rowena rolled her eyes, but the hand she waved in the air was weighed with guilt. “Nothing,” she said quietly, resignedly.

“Exactly!” Sam’s voice was just under a shout, his outrage bursting language back to the forefront. “Amara’s out there eating the freaking sun a-and … we’re doing nothing!”

“And you have a better idea.” Sam looked at Crowley, taken aback. Typically the King of Hell laced his words with vindication or, at the very least, a hefty amount of sarcasm. The resignation that replaced his usual bravado matched that of his mother’s and scared the hell out of Sam.

“Yes!” he retorted. “Anything! That’s my better idea, because _anything_ is better than _this_!” His voice was scathing, but he couldn’t meet the infinite blue eyes that Chuck was regarding him with. Eyes that held so much infinite, undefinable pity and the will to try and make this creation of His understand.

“Sam.” His name was spoken gently, but the man flinched regardless. “I get it. Even if we could lock Amara away, it wouldn’t do any good now. I’m dying.”

Biblical import flooded through Sam’s every fibre and he thought he might fall over from the shock of it. Looking around, now that Dean was gone, he realized he was the only human in the midst of very powerful supernatural beings. Rowena, the most powerful witch in the world, was several centuries old. Crowley, King of Hell, was similarly aged. Even adding on his time in the Cage, they both had at least a century over him.

And then there was God. God who was looking past him with such a broken, faraway gaze. God who was, quite possibly, as old as time itself.

_Life, death, chicken, egg. Regardless, at the end, I’ll reap Him too._

Sam remembered what Dean had relayed of his first meeting with Death. It had shaken his brother to his very foundations because, despite the existence of angels and Lucifer and Michael and Heaven, he still didn’t believe in God. It didn’t help that the angels had no idea where He’d gone or that he hadn’t been seen in eons. Death’s confession that he would one day reap God had disturbed Dean’s firmly atheistic beliefs.

No matter how this ended, today was that day. Today was the day Death reaped God.

“The cosmic balance between Light and Dark,” Chuck interrupted his frantic thoughts. “It’s over.”

Fear took over biblical significance and, just for a moment, Sam contemplated laying down and giving up. Letting the world they’d saved so often fade and fizzle out of existence. But then he recalled his promise to his mom not fifteen minutes ago and felt resolve slam back into place. No matter how this went, no matter if they won or lost, they had to try. They had to go down fighting.

“Alright. Well if we can’t cage her, we have to kill her.”

Rowena leaned forward slightly, a small glimpse of lavender sparkling cautiously in her eyes. Chuck’s burdened features took on even more weight, but his face was resigned. Crowley stopped gulping from the liquor bottle in his hand.

“And how do we … I mean, is that possible?” Rowena’s lilted voice was cautious, as though she was afraid to put too much stock in the idea.

“I don’t know,” Sam said, eyes alight with determination. “But we have to try. We need to get Dean and Cas back here so we can start brainstorming. I’m going to go call them. You three start thinking.”

He looked at them for a long moment, hoping they’d just go with him on this, then stalked out of the hall, up the stairs and out into the open air. The relief of fresh air was drowned in the red light of the fading sky. He’d forgotten how starkly it stained the world in red, as though the silent cries of their dying sun was bathing the earth in its blood. The thought chilled him, but he closed his eyes and pushed it aside. If he ignored it hard enough, it was just a long … long sunset.

A deep breath filled his lungs before being released back into the air and he quick-dialed Dean’s number. The dial tone only sounded twice before Dean’s voice picked up the line. “Yo.”

“Hey, you need to get back here. There’s a way out of this, just get back to the Bunker.”

“Alright, we’re on our way.”

Dean hung up and Sam shoved his phone back into his pocket. He could be strong for everyone else, but he couldn’t pretend for his own consolation. There was an infinitesimal chance this would work and that scared him. He was fucking terrified. So many times they’d faced the end of the world with hardly a doubt in their minds that they could save it. There’d been no time for that, after all; it was always _GOGOGOGOGO_ because there had never been time to stop and think of the consequences if the plan failed. They’d never had the luxury to contemplate failure.

Now, out of the eyesight of everyone, even God, he could feel his cracked resolve. The mortar that everyone saw holding up his crumbling wall was merely toothpaste  - it certainly looked like it was holding everything together, but he could feel the pieces sliding apart and there was nothing that would prevent this wall from breaking eventually. In the end, he reasoned, that wouldn’t matter. Either they would save the world again, or they wouldn’t and his broken mind would go unnoticed. All that mattered was fooling everyone else into thinking he had this all under control.

 

_____________________________________________________________

 

“You know, I meant what I said,” Dean muttered. It was quiet, deathly quiet, as they drove back to the Bunker and it was making him uncomfortable. “That you’re our brother.”

“I know, Dean.” Castiel shifted slightly, the only indication of his unease.

“And you know I didn’t just say it because the world’s going to burn, right?”

“It’s not going to burn,” Cas corrected. “If anything, it will freeze to death and - “

“Figure of speech, man,” Dean said with a roll of his eyes. “I know you knew what I meant.”

Silence met that statement and Dean could see those poignant blue eyes staring fixedly out towards the miles of road Baby was eating up until Dean slowed down, pulling her to the side of the road.

“Dean, what are you doing? We need to get back to the Bunker.”

“Not until I drill this into your thick angel brain,” Dean said firmly.

It was Cas’ turn to roll his eyes, his body exuding very un-angelic emotions of exasperation, fear and a certain shyness that Cas had adopted after all these years. “Dean, this can wait - “

“No it can’t!”

Cas finally turned to face Dean, taking in the desperation and fervent need to drive this home to the angel.

“It can’t. You know that, Cas. I don’t know what Sam’s cooking up, but we both know it’s a long shot and I _need_ you to understand this in case - “

“In case we die?” the seraph asked dryly.

Dean didn’t crack a smile, just gripped Cas’ shoulder tightly. “Look, Cas. We’ve tried so hard. We’ve tried so hard to show that you belong and I know we haven’t always done the best at conveying that. I mean, I know we’ve definitely knocked you back a mile or two in some cases. And while I know there’s nothing I can do to make up for that, it’s just part of being family. Especially as fucked up a family as we are.”

Cas made another awkward shift. “Well, I have noticed that your bloodline has far more psychological anomalies than - “

Dean did laugh at that, a small grin alighting to modify the seriousness of the situation. “Dude, you don’t know how right you are, but that’s not really what I meant. Me and Sam, we were all we had for so long and then you came along and, somehow, you’re a part of our dysfunctional little family and that will always hold true. There’s nothing we wouldn’t do for you. Even if you can’t accept that for yourself, I need you to stop doubting it. I need you to stop doubting your place with us.”

A frown creased Cas’ brow as he looked back out to the long, paved road ahead of them. To the trees beside him painted in a harsh bronze from the red of this world’s dying sun. After all this time, after eons of life, it was coming to an end. It was an odd feeling. More than that, there was a deep ache in his chest of anticipated loss. The loss of family; not of his fellow angels in Heaven or even his Father sitting, dying, in the Bunker. It was the loss of the two beings in all of creation that he felt he could not live without.

“If there is any hope,” he said quietly, “If there is any chance that I do not lose you. Any chance that I do not lose Sam, I will chase it. No matter how small a chance, how astronomical a plan. If I can do anything to save you, I will.” He turned his gaze back to the earnest pleading of Dean’s eyes. “And if I cannot save you, Dean Winchester, there is no one else in the entirety of creation that I would prefer to fade away with. Barring personal doubts and shortcomings, you are more of a family to me than my own kind and I will fight for my family.”

Relief washed over Dean, like hot water pouring over an aching body. Impulsively, he grabbed Cas’ and kissed him gently on the forehead, lips pressed firmly, gently to his soft skin. It was very unlike Dean, even in his most tender, vulnerable moments, but it was something so desperately intimate that Cas felt, for the most fleeting moment, like crying.


	19. And the Heavens Shall Tremble

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Turns out the soul-shattering end of an era can trigger enough depression and angst to kick me out of writer's block. Yay?
> 
> Canonical character deaths ... kind of. You've seen the show. 
> 
> Chapter title taken from Audiomachine's work: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lZRG9ARxOVY

Glass sliding along the wooden bar interrupted Sam’s grim musings and he looked at the healthy amount of whiskey Cas had silently offered. He tried for a small smile, knowing it came out more an expression of the grief he was feeling than that of reassurance.

“No thanks, Cas.”

“It’s medicine,” Cas replied, attempting to be firm. Sam’s eyes met the angel’s, just for a moment, and the pain held in that drowning blue was nearly Sam’s undoing. It was taking all of his self-control not to bolt out the door after Dean. He had no idea where he was, of course, but he’d overturn heaven, hell and everything in-between to find him. His brother had put Cas in charge of his wellbeing, but the seraph was barely holding it together himself, the weak, plaster mask only put into place for Sam’s benefit because Sam couldn’t be the strong one anymore.

Teeth ground together rigidly and he averted his eyes back to the cracks and scratched initials in the unkempt wood of the bar’s countertop. White-knuckled fists clenched and unclenched and lungs expanded to the point of pain as he tried to maintain his composure.

_Smart thing,_ he told himself fiercely. _We have to do the smart thing._ But goddamn, how difficult that was when Dean was the one on the line. He was being selfish; he knew that, but that knowledge didn’t make this any easier. How was he supposed to rejoice the return of the sun when life itself had cost him his brother?

His breathing hitched, a sob barely swallowed down before it could surface. He was glad Cas hadn’t made any attempts to show physical comfort because he was pretty sure that even a grip of the shoulder would have broken him down at this point.

“Thanks Cas,” Sam muttered, downing the glass in one large swallow. Maybe he _should_ be drunk for this. It wouldn’t make it any easier, but it would make it easier for someone to stop him when his resolve finally broke and he tried to do something stupid. As it was, he’d tried praying to Lucifer to take him back, to use him as his whipping boy again if he could rescue Dean, but he knew that was a hopeless, reckless endeavor. Even if his prayer made it past Chuck’s protection, Lucifer couldn’t do anything to save Dean. Not even Chuck had been able to stop the Darkness; a single archangel with no vessel would be as useless as a NERF gun fired upon an angry grizzly.

Rowena, standing behind Sam as elegantly as ever, reached out a careful hand. An inch from his broad, flannel-clothed back, she stopped, biting her scarlet lip in hesitation. She knew what it was like to love and lose. More importantly, she knew the agony that came with sacrificing the one you loved most for the greater good. It was an immolation that killed you slowly and never felt quite worth the loss. Aside from that, she also knew nothing anyone ever said or did would lighten that load even a feather’s weight and so her hand fell gently back to her side and she exchanged a sad look with Cas, who dropped his gaze after a brief moment. The angel wasn’t taking this well either.

She steadied herself and walked behind the counter, grabbing a full bottle of vodka for the angel and a second glass of whiskey for Sam. “Drink up,” she ordered briskly, sliding the two in front of them. Sam had downed his glass before the words even left her mouth. Cas eyed the clear liquid with some trepidation before taking a long draft. She eyed the other two members of their pathetic soiree; Crowley was sipping slowly from a glass of gin and sorting through a bowl of peanuts, face pensive and waiting. God was huddled into a seat at the booth, merely waiting for his inevitable end. She supposed it was up to her to keep everyone together until they knew the outcome of Dean’s mission. That meant keeping everyone’s glasses full and so she refilled Sam’s.

The amber liquid was gone in record time, but he’d stepped away to join Cas a few feet back so she left his glass alone for the moment. The angel was looking at Chuck pensively, fear poorly hidden in the seraph’s stooped posture. “He looks awful,” he muttered. Sam looked over and mentally agreed. It was odd to see the figure of an unknown cult author with the knowledge that, besides writing the Gospels Winchester, He’d written … everything else. Chuck was responsible for everything that had ever happened or entered creation and He looked like Death itself. Sam was reminded of his own reflection during the Trials to close Hell’s Gates. If Chuck wasn’t leaning on the back of the booth, He’d be a broken heap on the floor. His eyes were sunken into sickly pale features and the bright creation-blue of His irises was profoundly and unnaturally stark against the deep bruises under His eyes. His chest rose and fell with quick, shallow breaths.

Sam sent a concerned look to Cas and walked over to sit across from the dying Almighty. “Hey Chuck,” he said softly. “How’re you holding up?”

“Oh, aces,” Chuck replied. His voice was breathless, with a small sarcastic smile to bely the seriousness of the situation.

“You know we, um,” Sam’s throat worked painfully. “We need you to try and … hang in there. Just a little longer.” He tried to keep the pleading out of his eyes, his voice. He tried to sound more supportive than desperate, but he wasn’t sure how well it worked. Chuck would probably see it in his thoughts, even if he was successfully hiding it anyways.

“I know. I’m trying.”

Chuck’s small smiles perplexed Sam, despite the knowledge He was putting on a brave face just like the rest of them. For being God, _the_ God, he seemed so human. He wondered if living among His creations for so long, interacting on a daily basis, writing their stories, hell even holding a damn fan convention. What if it had the same effect on Him as it had on Cas? Humanity blending into the celestial. It would have been an interesting theory for him to mull over if his mind wasn’t already brimming with pain and fear.

“I’m gonna go get you some water.” Sam sent a tight smile to Chuck and stood up, counting the steps it took to get to the bar. It was easier to keep himself from going after Dean if his mind was preoccupied, even if it was just compulsively counting his steps. His thoughts seemed detached, forced to focus on anything other than the current situation. He found it odd his hands weren’t shaking as he filled a glass from the tap. He took a deep, controlled breath and turned to walk back back.

Brows furrowed, looking from the now-empty seat to around the bar. “Chuck?” Cas’ alarm as he stood up, looking around, mirrored Sam’s steadily growing panic. “Oh God,” Sam said numbly.

“Or lack thereof,” he heard Crowley mutter tensely. Typically Sam would have snapped back, but the gravity of the situation had finally hit him.

This was it.

This was the endgame. Chuck had died. Death had come for Him and reaped Him into the æther. He had faded away and all that was left was Dean’s Hail Mary. All that was left was Dean’s own reaping.

He was vaguely aware of someone shaking him and he blinked, swallowing hard as Cas’ worried face came back into focus. “Sam? Sam, are you alright?” What a stupid question, he thought detachedly. What about this situation was ok? Was anything ok anymore? Would it ever be?

No. Of course the answer was no. Either the world froze and withered away or he would be forced to face the sun every morning knowing that Dean …

Something hit him in the face and his body reacted on pure muscle memory, legs shifting into a fighting stance, arms raised in defense and ready for retaliation. Before he could throw a punch, however, reality jolted back with dizzying suddenness and he was back in the bar with Crowley standing in front of him, ready to slap him again. Cas had him by the arm, backing him up, fear temporarily replaced with a hard look of anger.

“Buck up, Moose,” Crowley said. “Can’t have you dithering into hysterics.” He shrugged Cas off and walked back to down the rest of his gin before pouring himself another glass. Rowena was looking between them, lips tight and worried as she smoothed the sapphire blue of her gown. Cas gripped his upper arms, looking into his eyes with concern, but what was there to be said? Cas knew what was going through Sam’s mind because it was also running through his own.

“Come sit down, Sam.” Cas led him into a seat and they just … waited. There was nothing to say, no way to make this better. There wasn’t even a mite of false hope available for any of them. He felt Cas’ eyes watching him tensely, ready to stop him should Sam run, a possibility they both knew could break at any moment. If it wasn’t for the angel’s celestial, inhuman patience, Cas would probably be running with him, searching for Dean to the ends of the earth. But Dean had given him a job to do and he’d be damned if he didn’t see it through. Sam was all Cas had now. His father was dead. Dean would soon join him. All they had now was each other.

And then there was light.

It didn’t come back as suddenly as Sam would have expected. It filtered in gently, filling the room with it’s undeniable truth. Cas turned around quickly, looking out past the windows’ blinds. A deep, shuddering breath forced itself painfully in and out of Sam’s lungs as his eyes widened in tenuous disbelief. They half-ran outside, hands held up against the sun’s renewed brilliance.

“He did it,” Crowley said, unusually hushed.

“He bloody did it,” Rowena returned, just as shocked.

“And Dean?” Cas asked, gentle voice was heavy with the answer he already knew. Sam blinked away tears, turning his gaze to the concrete sidewalk before stumbling back inside the bar, grabbing the first bottle his hands found and downing some burning liquid he was too far gone to identify.

“You should have gone after him,” Lucifer said beside him, leaning casually against the countertop. “You couldn’t have stopped it but maybe you wouldn’t have so much survivor’s guilt.”

Sam snarled, pressing against his palm with furious purpose. Lucifer flickered back out of sight and a sob tore at his chest. He’d have been on his knees if his hands weren’t gripping the countertop so viciously.

A hand on his shoulder made him flinch and he turned away. “Samuel.” Rowena’s gentle, lilting voice was velveteen sympathy and Sam couldn’t face it, couldn’t face how deeply it tore away at him and pierced his very soul.

“Thanks for all your help, Rowena,” he gritted out, teeth clenched tightly shut as his head bowed. It was genuine gratitude. He knew she’d sacrificed much to help them, between Amara and Lucifer’s torments. He had to drown himself in something so he didn’t drown in grief and so he took another long drought of whatever was in his hand. Her small hand rubbed gentle, soothing circles on his back and it was tearing him into pieces so small he feared he’d never find them all. Give him something to hit. Give him something to hunt. To kill. He couldn’t face this gentle understanding. It hurt too much.

He heard Cas’ footsteps behind him and his gentle murmuring to the witch. Sam focused on their words so he couldn’t focus on the thoughts in his mind.

“We truly do appreciate your assistance. We could not have succeeded without you.”

“Och, well. It was nothin’.” A moment of silence before her tentative query. “You’ll take care of him, won’t you?”

“Of course,” Cas replied quietly.

“And yourself?” There was no answer to that one, but Rowena understood. “I’ll be in touch,” she said softly a lingering hand on Cas’ shoulder before she walked out the door, heels clicking to signify her retreat.

There was a long moment of silence as though neither could find the words. Or maybe they didn’t want to be the catalyst that broke them both down. It could have been both. It could have been a thousand other reasons, but when Cas finally called to him gently, a second sob ripped itself from Sam’s throat. Suddenly he was held in such a desperate embrace and the floodgates burst. They ended up on their knees clutched in a suffocating hold for the only lifeline they held was each other. Emanations of loss and agony tore at the human man while Sam’s shoulder grew hot and wet from the angel’s silent tears.

The red of sundown filtered in through the bar’s windows when they finally extricated themselves from each other. The pain had not lessened in Cas’ Grace and he saw the dangerous extent of dissociated numbness that Sam had fallen into. He found himself suddenly grateful for his inability to sleep; he would have to keep a very careful eye on Sam for a very long time.

“Come, Sam,” he called gently. “We should return to the Bunker.” He couldn’t call it home, for there was no home left to either of them right now with the knowledge Dean would not be there waiting for them with a beer and a homemade burger, some quip about why they’d taken so long to get back. That realization was a punch in the gut, a feeling so profound that Cas hadn’t thought his angelic nature was capable of such an emotion. He forced back another wave of emotion, tears threatening to run down his face again. He had to be strong for Sam now. Dean had given him a job. In fact, it had been his dying wish and Sam was lost, aimless and Cas was his only anchor.

If he was being honest with himself, and he was enough a Winchester that self-honesty never came easily, taking care of Sam was the only thing keeping Cas tethered to sanity. He felt his Grace roiling in turmoil as though he had a true, human soul. Somewhere in the midst of that shining, brilliant light within, a pit of darkness had bloomed; something so ugly and all-consuming that he feared it might take over completely. If Cas was being honest with himself, the only thing keeping him from giving up and allowing that pit to overshadow the light was the knowledge that Sam needed him as much as Cas needed the last living member of his family. They were all that was left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've seen a lot of hate and betrayal spoken about in the last 24 hours. In all truth, as much as Supernatural has given me, as much as the show, the actors and the resultant campaigns spawned have saved my life and taught me lessons no one else could ever have drilled into my thick skull, as much of a family as the universe has given me. As much as this can hurt, please be gentle to them. This hurts them as much as it hurts anyone and they deserve our gratitude. They've given us so much. They've given more than they ever had to and they deserve time with their families and to follow other passions that creating the show couldn't allow them.


	20. Finis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unhappy chapter with an unhappy ending. This is the final chapter, though there will be another installment picking up where this left off. Thank you for sticking with this <3 
> 
> Chapter title taken from Audiomachine's piece: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6Myq-Po8Ln4

The long, long ride back to the Bunker was utterly silent. Sam’s white-knuckled grip on Baby’s wheel never shifted. It hurt too much to listen to Dean’s music, so the radio stayed off. His gaze never left the eaten up miles of black road before and behind them. He was speeding and Cas found himself praying that they wouldn’t get pulled over by a well-meaning police officer. When he realized there was no one left to hear him, that his Father was truly gone, he felt another drop of ink fill the dark well within his Grace. He turned his thoughts to other places, to anything other than loss.

But what else was there? He was sitting in Sam’s seat because Sam was sitting in Dean’s. Dean would never again listen to the purr of the Impala while blasting classic rock music. They were heading towards an empty Bunker, one that would never be filled with the smell of Dean’s cooking or the shout of his sarcastic humor as he cracked a bad joke to their chagrin. Sam would never again complain about the music or sing along with his older brother when he gave up his protests. He tried focusing on the sights passing them by, but it was all his Father’s creation, a Father that he could never again pray to. As Dean had put it, Chuck had been a deadbeat dad. He’d never answered prayers after He left Heaven. He’d been absent, He didn’t take responsibility, He offered no help when His children were dying by the thousands. All the same, He’d still been Cas’ Father and he’d loved Him. There would be no reconciliation, no chance to know Him or fix things now.

There was only loss.

Another drop of ink.

Sam’s dissociation worried him; it reminded him too much of his Soulless counterpart for Cas’ comfort. And while he didn’t believe Sam was a danger to others, he surely held a significant risk to himself. He’d been on the edge of flight even waiting for Dean’s plan to fail or succeed. Now that there was nowhere for Sam to run, that negative energy would turn inwards, as it always did with the Winchesters. And when that energy resulted from significant loss, the resultant coping strategies were always disastrous for the survivor.

They pulled into the garage and Sam keyed off the Impala’s ignition. Cas waited, unsure what to expect; Sam’s body was taut, wound so tightly that the angel thought his body might snap in two. His Adam’s Apple was bobbing as his throat worked convulsively. Whether he was fighting back emotion or trying to find something to say, Cas didn’t know. He wasn’t sure if Sam knew either. Secretly, Cas was hoping all that emotion his friend was obviously trying to repress would just explode loudly, pain and rage and loss bursting from Sam in a sudden fit of violence and screaming. Cas could deal with that. He could tolerate that, it was something that he’d been able to help Dean through more than once, but Sam had always been quieter and it made it much more difficult for someone to get in and help the man.

In the end, Sam stayed silent and left the Impala, closing the creaking door with excessive care and walking into the Bunker. Cas followed him, carefully calculating the respectful amount of distance to put between him and Sam. Not so much that Sam felt alone, but enough that he didn’t feel crowded.

“Sam, I’m so sorry,” Cas broke the silence, the metallic sound of their shoes on the metal stairs helping to allay the strangeness of speech after so much silence. “If you want to talk … “ He broke off for a moment. Comfort was something he was still trying to learn. “I’m here if you need anything.” He offered gently. Sam turned his head slightly towards Cas, nodding silently but before he could reply, an unfamiliar voice echoed throughout the entry room.

“Hello, hello!”

Sam whipped his head around, instinct replacing the numbness in his mind. He caught the faint outline of a woman before a flash of blinding light made him wince and shut his eyes. He heard an echo of Cas’ faint cry and when the light was gone, so was Cas. Fear burst through his chest as the last remaining member of his family vanished.

“Cas!” he called, although he never expected a reply. He turned back to the woman, going for the handgun at his back, but she already had a firearm trained on him.

“Don’t,” she said calmly. His hands returned to where she could see them in a faint placating gesture. “Sam Winchester. Toni Bevell. Men of Letters, London Chapter House.”

That earned an expression of surprise, and he looked at her more carefully. She certainly looked classically English; though she was against the light and swathed in shadows, he could make out smart clothes, blonde hair pulled back in a neat ponytail. Her unoccupied hand dripped with blood that must have been used to paint the banishing sigil she’d used on Cas.

This couldn’t be real life, could it? Surely this was a nightmare brought on by the stress of losing Dean. If the Men of Letters truly still existed and they knew who he was, they would have dropped a line, offering assistance or _something._ Eileen’s parents had been stationed in Ireland, surely she would have mentioned if they were still an active branch.

She was speaking and it was hard to understand what she was saying. Everything felt so transparent, so detached and he wasn’t sure if he should play along with this or find something to bring him back to reality. He looked back in a useless effort to find Cas again before facing her. “You uh … _what_?”

“They sent me to take you in.”

What the fuck? “To take me in?” He knew he sounded utterly clueless, but nothing she was saying was making any sense and he couldn’t make heads or tails of what this was about.

“Assuming the world didn’t end and … yay!”

So they knew about that and they were just now showing up? Sam turned around again, searching for any other intruders. His mind was flying at a million miles per hour and he tried to focus, tried to figure out the situation in front of him. “Look, lady - “

“We’ve been watching you, Sam,” she interrupted. She, Toni, her name was, seemed unhurried. Unbothered. The world had nearly ended and she was so goddamn calm. “What you’ve done. The damage you’ve caused. Archangels, Leviathans, the Darkness and now, well … the Old Men have decided enough’s enough. I mean, let’s face it, Sam: you’re just a jumped up hunter playing with things you don’t understand and doing more harm than good.”

Anger flared through Sam. They’d made some mistakes, sure. Monumental mistakes that he’d never pretend were on anyone but them. But to judge them for every near-Apocalypse without so much as revealing their existence? That was fucking rich.

“Now, where’s Dean?”

That hot anger turned to ice and his eyes hardened as they raised to meet Toni Bevell’s. “Dead,” he bit out, voice as hard as the hazel of his eyes. That seemed to throw her and she stayed silent, mouth parted sightly in wary surprise. “Listen, lady,” he said coldly. “I don’t know who the hell you are or what the hell you want - “

The handgun clicked as he took a step forward. “Stop,” she commanded calmly.

“Put the gun down,” he ordered, taking another step forward.

“I said stop,” Her voice had raised and lost some of its composure.

“You and I both know you’re not going to pull the trigger.” Sam continued forward. The reckless nature of his anger and loss warred with the common sense drilled into him since childhood. He was taking a high-risk gamble here; she knew about him, but how much? There was absolutely a high possibility that she would shoot him, but if he could get within arm’s reach before she resolved to pull the trigger, he could -

Agony pierced through his thigh before his ears registered the gunshot and he dropped to the ground with a shout of pain. The bullet had ripped through muscle and grazed bone and his breath hissed between gritted teeth. Heels clicked on the floor as she walked towards him, piercing a needle into his neck. Sam jerked away, swinging at her and felt his fist connect with her ribs, earning a low yelp. His teeth bared at her, but whatever she’d injected him with was fast-acting and he felt his senses begin to blur. He shook his head violently, trying to regain some clarity, but his mind felt heavy and it was spreading to his limbs.

“I’ve given you a heavy sedative,” her clipped voice stated, echoing in his ears. She tied a rough piece of cloth around his wound, making him hiss as the pressure flared the pain brighter. “You’re too dangerous to deal with otherwise. I won’t tell you where we’re going or where you’ll be staying, so there’s no point in asking. I’m sure you have connections and ways to send out a red alert.” Another length of cloth forced itself between his teeth and tied around his head, effectively gagging him. He tried to swing at her again, but his limbs were so hard to control right now. She grabbed the arm and swung it behind him, grasping his other and tying them together.

He faded out into nothingness. There were no dreams, no sense of passing time during his unconsciousness, but when Sam awoke, he was in the back of what seemed to be an SUV. Pain sharpened his mind, not only from the bullet in his thigh, but the screaming of his muscles, having been cramped in the back of this car in restraints for what was likely the better part of the morning. The sun was high in the sky and they were pulling into a driveway. He tried to shout at Toni, but there was a second man in the driver’s seat, one that he’d have much more difficulty taking down in his current state than the slim figure of the Englishwoman.

The car stopped and Toni addressed him flippantly. “Be a good boy and wait.” And then she was gone and the man with her. Sam took a deep breath, using the pain to shove back at the dregs of whatever sedative he’d been dosed with. It had been fast and effective, taking him down far easier than anything else he was accustomed to. He worked on his restraints, listening carefully to the muffled conversation coming from outside, but he couldn’t make out clear words. Wrists were tied with a zip tie and it seemed they’d removed the hidden pocketknife he kept on him. He snarled to himself, trying to break the strong plastic with sheer force of will until the trunk door popped open and he was staring into the horrified face of a man in his late thirties.

Toni was giving a rundown of his bullet wound. He was a doctor then? “Lady, I’m a veterinarian,” came the panicked response. Sam sent a look towards Toni that dripped with venom. Seriously? She couldn’t even get him a real doctor?

“They’re all meat,” she shrugged and Sam would have shaken his head if he wasn’t trying so hard with his restraints. This woman was a serious piece of work. Plans for retribution were already forming in Sam’s mind and he had so, so many ideas. He was hauled out of the SUV and a cry was smothered through his gag as he landed on his injured leg and crumpled to his knees. The man with Toni hauled him up while the veterinarian swore quietly, looking around in anxiety as though the police might turn up any second.

Sam was brought around back and sat down in a clinical seat, arms still bound tight behind his back. “Behave,” Toni warned him and he sent another death-ridden glare at her. But if he was going to get away, he needed this bullet out and he leg stitched up or he wouldn’t be getting far. He stayed stock still as the other man rifled through drawers and brought out a vial of intramuscular painkiller.

“You can skip that. We need to be in and out,”

“Lady, that’s insane. You can’t expect him to hold still through all of this.”

“Oh, trust me,” Toni smiled sweetly. “He can take it.”

Sam caught the man’s nervous glance and nodded tightly. Heaven knew he’d dug out enough bullets and stitched himself up countless times with nothing to dull the pain. This wouldn’t be anything knew. The man shrugged and brought his supplies over, cutting a line through Sam’s jeans and the rough binding to get at the wound. He sent one more look to Sam before inserting the forceps into his thigh, searching through muscle for the bullet. Sam’s eyes screwed shut, his breathing hitched and labored through his gag, but he stayed utterly still past a very faint trembling.

“That is some tolerance you’ve got,” he heard the man murmur and the clink of metal against metal told him the bullet was out of his leg. Sam took several deep breaths to regain his composure, pointedly looking out past Toni. The vicious sting of antiseptic made him hiss and he barely registered the forming sutures through the liquid’s burning. “I’m sorry about this,” came the expected apology. “I really am.”

The apology didn’t matter. Sam looked over all of them, staring blankly at a wall. It didn’t matter. None of this did. Dean was gone, there was little chance of Cas finding him. Even if he could, Sam was sure the place would be warded if Toni truly was Men of Letters. Sam would find his own means of escape, or he wouldn’t. Either way there wasn’t much difference in his mind.

_Where’s Dean?_

_Dead._

There was nothing for Sam to go back to. There was no hope left.


End file.
